Tis the night before Christmas...
The fire was already low when my grandfather spoke, staring into the glowing embers as if they were old memories instead of burning wood.
βEvery Christmas Eve,β he said, βthereβs one story the fire remembers.β
Many years ago, in a small village buried under snow, there lived a man who sold firewood. He wasnβt rich, and he wasnβt famous, but he knew how to keep people warm. On the coldest night of the year, Christmas Eve, he noticed a single log left on his cart β the last one.
Instead of selling it, he carried it home and placed it in his fireplace. As the log burned, something strange happened. The fire didnβt crackle loudly or throw sparks. It burned slow and steady, filling the room with a deep, gentle warmth, the kind that makes you feel safe.
Outside, the wind howled, and the snow fell harder than ever. Travelers lost on the road began to follow the light from his window. One by one, they knocked on his door. The woodcutter welcomed them all, offering warmth, soup, and a place by the fire.
By midnight, the room was full of strangers laughing like old friends. When the last log finally turned to ash, the storm outside stopped. The sky cleared, and the bells of the village church rang softly in the distance.
The next morning, the man found his cart full of firewood again β more than he had ever owned before. But he never spoke of it. He only smiled every Christmas Eve and saved one log for the fire.
My grandfather fell silent then, the flames flickering in his eyes.
βThat,β he said quietly, βis why you never let the fire go out on Christmas Eve.β
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user : Strawn