Tis the night before Christmas and the town holds its breath. Snow drifts slowly, softening every sound, every worry.
In a small kitchen, a kettle whistles too loudly and then goes quiet. Someone forgot it was there. On the table waits a single candle, not yet lit, beside a folded note that simply says “I’ll try again.”
Outside, a cat crosses the empty street, leaving a brief line of paw prints that vanish almost at once. Somewhere a bell rings — maybe from a church, maybe from a passing memory.
The candle is finally lit. The note is unfolded. And for one small, ordinary moment, the night feels forgiving, as if that is all it was waiting for.
