A Filament Glows in the Gloom

Marcus watched the first proper snow of the season cling to the windowpane, a delicate lacework forming against the grey sky. It wasn't the furious, blinding kind yet, just a soft, insistent fall, a quiet promise of deeper winter. He traced a finger over the cold glass. From his fifth-floor apartment on Kennedy Street, the city unfolded below, a grid of muted colours slowly succumbing to the encroaching dark. Across the street, the small evergreen outside the coffee shop had been strung with blue and white lights, a haphazard job, some bulbs already burnt out, leaving dark gaps in the attempt at cheer. He sipped his lukewarm tea. It tasted like nothing.

His building, a brick block from the 70s, hummed with the faint, shared sounds of other lives – a television laugh track, the distant clang of an elevator, a baby’s muffled cry. This time of year always brought with it a peculiar kind of quiet, a hush that settled over everything just before the full-blown frenzy. He remembered Christmases when the quiet felt like anticipation, a prelude to boisterous family gatherings, the smell of roast fowl and burnt sugar. Now, it felt more like an echo chamber, amplifying the stillness in his own two rooms.

He scratched at the rough wool of his cardigan. The streetlights flickered on, one by one, a staggered illumination. The blue and white on the tree across the street looked a touch less pathetic now, a small defiance against the deepening twilight. A bus, the number 16, rumbled past, its interior a warm, fleeting glimpse of bundled up figures. He wondered where they were all going. Home? To work? To meet someone? He didn't have anywhere particular to go, not tonight. Or tomorrow. The days folded into each other, marked less by events and more by the subtle shifts in light, the changing texture of the frost on his windows.

The thought of the upcoming rush, the frantic last-minute shopping he used to undertake, felt alien. The crowds, the jostling, the endless loops of 'Jingle Bell Rock' – it was a performance he no longer felt the urge to join. There was a certain peace in observing, in being separate. But it was a thin peace, easily pierced. Sometimes, like now, a sharp sliver of something else found its way in. Not sadness, precisely. More like a phantom limb ache, a memory of warmth where there was now only cool air.

Echoes in the Concourse

Priya gripped her thermodynamics textbook, its spine already cracked in several places from relentless study, but her eyes kept drifting. The hum of the St. Vital Centre food court was a constant, low roar, punctuated by the clatter of trays and sudden bursts of laughter. Everywhere she looked, red and green. Glitter. Fake snow. Someone had strung giant plastic ornaments from the ceiling, reflecting distorted images of hurried shoppers. The air conditioning was working overtime, trying to fight the heat of a thousand bodies and the festive lights.

She was supposed to be reviewing enthalpy changes. Instead, her mind was a chaotic tangle of differential equations and the jingly, saccharine version of 'Silent Night' currently bleeding from the mall speakers. Finals were next week. Her parents had called last night, asking if she'd picked out a dress for the Christmas Eve dinner at her auntie's place. And had she thought about what she wanted for a gift? Always the gifts. The unspoken pressure to produce good grades *and* be cheerfully festive. It was exhausting.

A small child, no older than four, ran past, trailing a discarded mitten, screaming with delight at a giant inflatable Santa. Priya watched him disappear into the crowd. She remembered being that age, the sheer, uncomplicated joy of Christmas. She’d always loved it, the lights, the stories, the impossible anticipation. Now it felt… manufactured. A performance she was too tired to fully participate in. She wanted to feel that old warmth, that innocent belief, but it was buried under layers of academic stress and the general grind of adulting.

She picked up her lukewarm coffee, took a gulp. Too bitter. She set it down, the plastic cup leaving a small ring of condensation on the laminate table. Her phone buzzed – a text from her study group. "Are you coming?" She typed back a quick,

Almost there.

She wasn't. Not really. She wanted to escape the manufactured jollity, the relentless cheer that felt so at odds with her internal state. She wanted a quiet corner, a hot cup of proper chai, and a few hours where her brain wasn't being pulled in a dozen directions. But the season, she knew, would not wait. It pressed in, unavoidable.

A Thousand Little Calculations

Liam pushed the trolley through the produce aisle, the wheels squeaking a high-pitched protest against the linoleum. The air here was damp, smelling of citrus and freshly misted greens. He gripped the worn plastic handle, his knuckles white. Christmas dinner. Two children, a wife, his mother-in-law. It was a list that always seemed to grow, not shrink. He picked up a bag of potatoes, weighed them in his hand, then put them back, opting for a smaller, cheaper bag. Every dollar counted.

He spotted the seasonal displays: pyramids of clementines wrapped in festive netting, boxes of shortbread, tins of holiday chocolates. His youngest, Maya, had seen a chocolate Santa in a catalogue last week and hadn't stopped talking about it. He knew exactly which aisle it was in. He also knew he probably shouldn't. The car needed new tires. Rent was due. Life was a relentless series of trade-offs, and this time of year, those choices felt heavier, imbued with an added layer of parental guilt.

He paused by the frozen turkeys, massive birds lying in icy sarcophagi. The cheapest one was still too much. He'd probably end up with a chicken. Again. He sighed, a quiet, internal sound that no one else in the bustling Superstore seemed to notice. A young couple walked past, their basket overflowing with gourmet cheeses and artisanal crackers, laughing softly. He felt a familiar, dull ache in his chest, a sense of inadequacy that always seemed to surface around the holidays.

He checked his phone – a text from Sarah: "Picked up the kids. Don't forget the cranberry sauce!" Cranberry sauce. Of course. Another item. He imagined Maya's face, lit up, unwrapping something shiny. That was the only thing that mattered. Not the cost, not the endless calculations. Just that flicker of pure, unadulterated joy. He grabbed a jar of generic cranberry sauce, its label a garish red, and moved towards the checkout, already mentally adding up the numbers in his head, hoping they wouldn't spiral too far beyond what his last pay cheque could bear.

The Iron Tree

Isabella shivered, pulling her wool toque lower over her ears. The cold had a bite now, sharp and exhilarating, making her fingers ache around her sketchbook. She was sitting on a bench in Old Market Square, facing the skeletal iron tree sculpture, its abstract branches now strung with hundreds of tiny, warm white lights. The early evening sky was a deep, bruised violet, the last vestiges of sunset fading behind the brick buildings of the Exchange District. She loved this time of year here.

The harsh industrial lines of the old warehouses and art galleries were softened by the approaching festivities. Garlands with oversized baubles hung across the pedestrianized areas, reflecting the glow of shop windows. It was a bizarre juxtaposition – the grit, the history, the honest labour etched into the stone and iron, now covered in tinsel and ephemeral cheer. She sketched quickly, trying to capture the way the light from the iron tree bled into the fog of her breath, the way a distant car's headlights cut through the descending gloom.

A group of students, laughter echoing, stumbled past, their phones out, snapping selfies in front of a particularly sparkly window display. Isabella didn't begrudge them their joy. She understood it, the need to find brightness in the long, dark stretch of winter. But she sought something different, a deeper truth in the superficiality. The way the light, for all its artifice, still managed to soften the edges, to create moments of unexpected beauty. It was a paradox she found endlessly fascinating, something real born from something entirely fabricated.

She rubbed her gloved hands together. Her charcoal smudged slightly on the page. The iron tree pulsed with its borrowed light, a quiet beacon in the darkening square. It wasn't organic, wasn't natural, but in its own way, it felt deeply true to the spirit of the city. A resilient beauty, layered over something tougher. A woman walked past, her face buried in a scarf, a single red shopping bag swinging from her hand. Isabella watched her go, a fleeting silhouette, a tiny part of the vast, intricate tapestry that was Winnipeg, preparing for a season of both manufactured cheer and profound, personal meaning. She closed her sketchbook, a vague unease settling in her stomach, a feeling that this quiet beginning held more than just festive anticipation; something else, a different kind of shift, was waiting just beyond the glimmering lights.

She stood up, the cold seeping into her bones. The city hummed around her, a constant, low thrum. The lights on the iron tree seemed to intensify, momentarily blinding. And for a second, she felt a strange, cold pull, as if the festive glow was merely a thin veneer over something far older, far more potent, lurking just beneath the surface of the frost-hardened earth.

The wind picked up, swirling tiny crystalline flakes of snow around her feet. The artificial warmth of the lights felt suddenly insufficient against the raw, ancient cold of the land. She tucked her sketchbook into her bag, the charcoal dust clinging to her fingers like fine grey ash. What was it, she wondered, that the city was truly preparing for? Beyond the carols and the tinsel, the quiet pulse of something else had begun to beat, a rhythm beneath the ice, waiting.

The first full week of December, and the world was already holding its breath. For what, she couldn't say. But the chill wasn't just in the air anymore; it was in the expectation.

The city, a collection of individuals, each wrapped in their own thoughts and preparations, drifted closer to the heart of the season. The lights, for all their commercial intent, had begun to cast long, dancing shadows, hinting at old stories and new anxieties. The air grew colder, and the river, just beyond their sight, solidified its silent, powerful grip.