Tis the night before Christmas, and the house is quiet in that rare, honest way. The fire snaps softly, not trying to impress anyone. You’re wrapped in a blanket that smells faintly like laundry soap and smoke, staring into the flames without really thinking.
It’s been a long year. Not terrible. Not perfect. Just heavy enough to leave a mark. Tonight, though, it doesn’t ask anything from you.
There’s a mug on the table—tea that’s gone lukewarm. You drink it anyway. Somewhere nearby, a cat shifts in its sleep and settles again, completely at peace.
Midnight arrives without ceremony. No big moment. Just a pause. And in that pause, you realize you don’t need answers right now. You don’t need plans. You’re allowed to just be here.
The fire burns lower. The room stays warm.
For once, that feels like enough.
And that’s how Christmas begins.
