A winter mountain road. Darkness, a beam of headlights, patches of snow on the tarmac. The engine hums steadily. A barely audible newsreader is playing softly on the radio until SCULLY turns it off with a flick of her finger. For a moment, all that remains is the sound of the car moving.
MULDER is sitting in the passenger seat, coat open, a well-thumbed leaflet from some tourist stand in his hand. SCULLY is driving, focused, tired, but alert enough to notice Mulder’s energy with suspicion even before he speaks.
MULDER
We finished sooner than expected, Scully. Don’t we deserve a reward…
SCULLY
No.
MULDER
You don’t even know what I—
SCULLY
Yes, I do. You’ve got that tone of voice.
Mulder unfolds the leaflet and holds it up to the dashboard light.
MULDER
This isn’t just any old detour. It’s a culturally and historically justifiable stopover.
SCULLY
That’s the line you usually use to try and pass off a very bad plan as an educational excursion.
MULDER
Historic ice rink. Seventy years old. Due for demolition in the summer. Plans for an international winter sports centre to promote democracy. That sounds just the ticket for a quick coffee on this freezing night. Besides, it says here that there used to be a Catholic grammar school on the site, which was demolished after a fire and replaced by the ice rink.
SCULLY
And why exactly are you interested in that on the way back from a case that reeked of mould, insurance fraud and dead raccoons? Are you telling me that sport is more important than education?
MULDER
Because there’s historical coffee there.
Scully looks at him for a moment.
SCULLY
Mulder, there’s no such thing as historic coffee.
MULDER
Yes, there is. Coffee becomes historic if the building is old enough.
SCULLY
That’s not how anything works.
Mulder turns the leaflet towards her. A grainy photo shows an old ice rink with flags and fairy lights.
MULDER
Look at this. If a raccoon had died here at the opening ceremony, you wouldn’t be able to smell it seventy years later. A dying piece of local history. 
SCULLY
You’re not interested in local history.
MULDER
I’m very interested in places where information is destroyed along with the buildings. And without wanting to come up with a conspiracy theory, one could almost suspect that our good friend Pjetre de Vraas is certainly making money by not delivering overpriced catering to the rink and still charging for it.
SCULLY
There it is. Now it sounds like you again. De Vraas probably doesn’t even know this rink exists.
 
A sign flashes past in the beam of light:
HISTORIC ICE RINK – NEXT EXIT
Mulder sits up slightly, as if the universe itself had given its approval.
MULDER
See? And don’t forget, de Vraas can never remember afterwards where the money has gone. After all, he can’t keep track of everything.
SCULLY
I see a sign.
MULDER
I see our destiny.
SCULLY
You see an exit and mistake it for destiny.
Mulder leans slightly towards her, without really pressing her. More like a man who knows that persistence eventually counts as an argument.
MULDER
Fifteen minutes.
SCULLY
No.
MULDER
Ten.
SCULLY
Even an espresso doesn’t sound like ten minutes.
MULDER
Then a realistic fifteen.
Scully takes her time answering. Outside, the dark mountain landscape rolls past. A second sign announces the exit. At the last moment, she puts her indicator on. Mulder smiles immediately, far too pleased with himself.
SCULLY
Fifteen minutes. Coffee. No ghosts, no conspiracies, no spontaneous investigations.
MULDER
Of course not.
SCULLY
Mulder.
MULDER
Scully, I promise you a completely harmless, culturally responsible espresso in a historically significant ice rink.
SCULLY
That’s exactly the sort of sentence that usually leads to someone dying in my life.
Mulder folds the leaflet.
MULDER
Perhaps that’s your problem. You don’t associate beautiful architecture with danger enough.
SCULLY
No, my problem is that I associate beautiful architecture with you too often.
The road narrows. Ahead of them, light gradually appears in the darkness — first a diffuse glow, then headlights, then illuminated windows and banners.
Scully frowns.
SCULLY
Wait a moment.
Mulder looks ahead.
There are an unusually large number of cars in front of the hall. Black saloons. Press vehicles. Snow-glistening SUVs. People in evening dress. Camera lights. Banners.
MULDER
That’s more traffic than you’d expect for a nostalgic coffee.
SCULLY
You think so?
MULDER
I mean, either saying goodbye to the ice rink is a peak of regional passion here, or we’re driving straight into something that’s significantly bigger than cake.
Scully takes her foot off the accelerator slightly.
SCULLY
That wasn’t mentioned in your brochure.
MULDER
Perhaps that’s the surprise factor of historic places.
SCULLY
If there’s a gala going on, we’ll turn back.
Mulder continues to look through the windscreen at the lights, the movement, the flags and the strangely festive goings-on in the wintry night. A small, almost childlike sparkle glints in his eyes.
MULDER
Or we’ll have the most interesting coffee of our week.
Scully sighs. Not theatrically. More like someone who already realises they’ve made a mistake but will see it through to the end anyway.
SCULLY
I hate it when you look genuinely enthusiastic at moments like this.
MULDER
It’s one of my more endearing qualities.
SCULLY
No. It’s a warning light.
The car pulls into the forecourt.
The hall lies before them, bright against the snow, old and festive, and for one evening, far too alive once more.
CUT.