A Glimmer in the Frost

The clock above the stove, a cheap plastic thing Clara had bought him last year as a joke ('So you'll stop being late for everything, love'), ticked with an infuriating cheerfulness. Each swing of the pendulum seemed to mock the quiet of the flat, echoing the silence that had grown thick as frost since October. Outside, the streetlights cast long, shivering shadows across the wet pavement, their halos smudged by the persistent, soft fall of snow. Marcus pulled his oversized hoodie tighter, the worn cotton doing little to fend off the creeping dampness that had permeated the building's very bones. He hadn't bothered with the heating much, a futile gesture against the chill, or maybe a quiet penance. Who was he trying to save money for, anyway? The question hung, unanswered, in the space between heartbeats.

He’d promised himself he wouldn't do this. Wouldn't let the season get to him. But the sheer weight of Christmas Eve, the collective joyous hum from behind every lit window, pressed down, suffocating. A faint aroma of roasted something-or-other drifted from the flat below, and for a moment, an image of Clara, flour dusting her cheek, singing off-key to some terrible festive tune, flickered behind his eyes. He squeezed them shut, the phantom image stinging. No, he needed milk. Something mundane. Something that required movement, even if it was just out the front door and back again. A distraction.

The door handle, of course, chose this precise moment to seize up. Not just stiff, but truly seized, rattling uselessly when he turned it. He swore under his breath, a low, frustrated sound, kicking the bottom of the door lightly. It was an old building, the kind where everything held grudges. He jiggled, pulled, pushed, then finally, with a soft click and a shudder, it gave way. The blast of cold air that hit him was immediate, sharp, and exhilarating in its sheer brutal honesty. Better than the stale quiet inside, anyway.

He descended the creaking stairs, each step a protest, into the narrow, dimly lit hallway. The main entrance, usually a place of quick hellos and averted gazes, was currently occupied. Mr. Henderson, from flat 3B, a man whose permanent expression seemed to be 'mildly inconvenienced,' was wrestling with a formidable tangle of outdoor fairy lights. His back was to Marcus, a thick, slightly threadbare coat hunched against the cold that seeped in every time someone opened the main door. A single, exposed bulb from the string flickered erratically, casting a sickly yellow pulse against the muted greens and reds of the other bulbs, which remained stubbornly dark.

"Bloody things," Mr. Henderson muttered, his voice a gravelly rumble. He tugged harder, and the entire knotted mess, still half-plugged into a dangerously frayed extension cord, slipped from his gloved hands, landing with a soft thud on the icy concrete step. He didn’t curse again, just let out a long, slow sigh that seemed to carry the weight of a hundred Christmases past. Marcus paused, his hand hovering over the inner latch of the main door. He should just go. Get his milk. Mr. Henderson was not a man who appreciated intervention, or even acknowledgment, from what Marcus had gathered over the past few months.

But the older man looked… small, somehow. Hunched and defeated by a string of cheap plastic lights. The image of Clara’s fairy lights, tangled on his floor, flashed again. He knew the feeling of being overwhelmed by something insignificant, when everything else was already too much. He took a breath, the cold air burning his lungs.

"Need a hand with those, Mr. Henderson?" Marcus asked, his voice sounding a little too loud in the sudden quiet, a little too young. Mr. Henderson stiffened, then slowly turned. His eyes, watery blue behind thick-rimmed glasses, narrowed slightly. A bead of melting snow clung to his greying eyebrow.

"They're a menace," he grumbled, not quite an acceptance, but not a refusal either. He gestured vaguely at the mess of wires. "Every year. Always the same. Buy new ones, they say. But these… these were Clara's. My Clara, I mean." The last part was almost a whisper, a surprising crack in his gruff facade. Marcus felt a jolt, a sudden kinship in the shared, unspoken name. He walked over, the grit of salt crunching under his boots. He knelt down, wincing slightly as the cold seeped through his jeans.

The first few minutes were spent in a tense, companionable silence, punctuated by the rustle of plastic-coated wire and the occasional sharp tug. Mr. Henderson had taken the plug end, carefully testing each section for a dead bulb, while Marcus tackled the main knot, working patiently, almost mechanically, to separate the stubbornly intertwined strands. His fingers were stiff with cold, but the focus was a strange relief. No thoughts of empty rooms, no ghosts of laughter. Just the stubborn reality of plastic and copper.

"Used to put these up together, me and Clara," Mr. Henderson said, his voice softer now, almost conversational. He was staring at a section of dark bulbs, his thumb tracing the wire. "She loved 'em. All the colours. Said they made the street look… hopeful. Even when it was miserable out."

Marcus nodded, not looking up. "My mum loved Christmas lights too. She’d put them everywhere. Even in the kitchen, sometimes. Said they brightened up the washing up."

A small chuckle escaped Mr. Henderson, a dry, raspy sound. "Aye, sounds like a good woman. Clara used to tape 'em to the cat, one year. Said he needed to be festive. Never seen a cat look so offended in all my life." He paused, a genuine smile, fleeting but real, touching the corners of his mouth. Marcus found himself smiling back, a weak, rusty sensation.

"Did you get the big one up?" Marcus asked, referring to the giant inflatable snowman that usually dominated Mr. Henderson’s tiny front garden, though it was conspicuously absent this year. Mr. Henderson sighed. "Nah. Too fiddly. And the air pump, well, it packed in last week. Wouldn't you know."

He pulled at a wire, and suddenly, a small section of bulbs, a cluster of vibrant blues and greens, flared to life. They both looked at it, a tiny beacon in the grey dusk. Marcus felt a prickle behind his eyes, a familiar ache, but it was softer this time, less raw. It was a shared quiet, not an isolating one. They continued to work, slowly, painstakingly, the cold biting deeper. The scent of woodsmoke was stronger now, mixed with the damp earth and something metallic from the old wires. The snow was falling thicker, fat flakes swirling around them, catching in the glow of the few working bulbs.

Eventually, after what felt like an hour, they had a single, unbroken string of lights, albeit a shorter one than intended. It pulsed with a hopeful, if uneven, glow. Mr. Henderson picked it up, weighing it in his hand. "Well. That's something, I suppose." He looked at Marcus, and for the first time, his eyes held something other than irritation or resignation. A flicker of gratitude, perhaps. Or simply recognition.

"Thanks, lad," he said, gruff as ever, but with a different timbre. "Wouldn't have got 'em done without you. My hands… not what they used to be."

Marcus just nodded, pushing himself up, his knees cracking a protest. He brushed snow from his jeans. "No problem. Good to get out anyway."

As Marcus turned to finally head to the shop, Mr. Henderson reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a small, foil-wrapped square. "Here. Clara always made too many. You take it." He pressed it into Marcus's cold hand. It was a mince pie, still faintly warm through the foil. Marcus stared at it, then at the older man's face, which had already retreated behind its usual mask of mild annoyance. He nodded again, a lump forming in his throat. "Thanks, Mr. Henderson. Merry Christmas."

The words felt strange, heavy and light all at once, tasting of the snow and the unexpected sweetness of a shared, quiet moment. He walked down the street, the mince pie warm in his palm, the snow muffling the sounds of the city, and for the first time in weeks, the quiet wasn't quite so lonely. The single string of fairy lights, now strung haphazardly across Mr. Henderson's porch, pulsed a defiant, colourful rhythm against the encroaching dark. It wasn't hope, not exactly, but it was something like it. Something small and fragile and real, in a world that often felt neither.

A Fading Warmth

Back in his flat, the silence had shifted. It was still profound, but now it held the ghost of Mr. Henderson's gruff voice, the faint, sweet scent of the mince pie, and the lingering chill of the snow. Marcus peeled back the foil, the pastry flaking gently as he bit into it. It was rich, sweet, and comforting, a taste of a Christmas past, not his own, but a shared one nonetheless. The warmth spread, not just in his stomach, but deeper, somewhere behind his ribs. He stood by the window again, watching the snow fall, and saw the blue and green lights flickering down the street. He wondered if Mr. Henderson was watching them too, alone in his flat. It didn't feel as desolate as it had before. A tiny ember, perhaps, had been stoked, ready to glow.

He should probably light his own fairy lights. Or just leave them tangled on the floor, a relic of a different time. He looked at the unlit string, then back at the soft glow from 3B. The world outside, despite the cold and the dark, felt a fraction less overwhelming, a touch less final. He took another bite of the mince pie, the sweet fruit and spices a surprising balm. It was just a pie. Just some lights. But it was also something else. A flicker. A small, unexpected kindness in the vast, isolating expanse of a winter's night.

He finished the pie, crumbs dusting his hoodie. He ran his tongue over his teeth, the sweetness lingering. He looked at the tangled lights on his floor one last time, then back out at the glowing streetlights, at the falling snow. What did you do with a single ember? You tended it, he supposed. Or you let it die. The decision, for now, felt too large, too full of expectation.

He slid the window open a crack, letting the cold air in, fresh and clean. The world was still out there, raw and beautiful and heartbreaking. But tonight, for a few moments, it had been heartwarming too. He pulled the window shut, a decisive click.

He still needed milk.