Haunted by memories that cling like frost to his mind, the nameless sniper—played with haunting restraint by François Arnaud—returns to civilian life in rural Canada, carrying the weight of his service in Afghanistan. The film opens with him now attempting the simplest routines: riding the bus home, observing strangers, and stepping back into a world that no longer fits him. These ordinary acts become battlegrounds of their own, as the line between past and present begins to blur in his PTSD-affected mind.

Surrounded by the stark beauty of winter landscapes and sparse urban interiors, he searches for answers about his estranged father’s disappearance. The natural world, both serene and isolating, mirrors his emotional state—a frozen silence both comforting and haunting. Without ever naming him, the film invites us into his solitude, making his struggle feel universal, his anguish both specific and shared.

Flashbacks to combat—filled with muted explosions and breath-stealing tension—intercut with muted conversations and brief moments with a mentor or neighbor. These fragments of memory feel as raw as they are real, conveying the sniper’s fractured identity with subtle power. The narrative doesn’t seek to escape war, but to reckon with it, as both past and present form a single, relentless battle.

Visually, the cinematography acts as an emotional landscape: cold tones dominate urban scenes, while sweeping shots of the wilderness whisper of peace too distant to grasp. The film’s pace is deliberate—quiet moments linger, inviting introspection—but this restraint may test those expecting action rather than emotional depth.

Supporting characters—such as a mentor figure or a concerned neighbor—offer brief, compassionate dialogue, but remain on the periphery, reinforcing our focus on the sniper’s internal world. Their presence underscores the distance he feels, and the gulf between who he was and who he is now.

In its final act, the sniper doesn’t find a dramatic resolution. Instead, he takes a tentative step forward—perhaps a morning where he brews coffee without shaking, or allows himself to watch daylight without flinching. It’s a quiet moment of resilience that speaks louder than any battlefield victory. As the credits roll, we understand that healing isn’t a destination—it’s a fragile, ongoing choice, made one breath at a time.