A Glimmer, Cold and Bright

Chloe wiped down the counter with a practiced, absent-minded circular motion, the damp cloth leaving faint streaks on the polished wood. The café was in that awkward lull between the lunch rush and the afternoon drip-ins. Outside, the streetlights were already kicking on, a weak, butter-yellow against the steel-grey of the sky. Condensation bloomed in intricate, feathery patterns on the window glass, obscuring the precise details of the early Christmas decorations going up across the street. A plastic Santa, already looking a little deflated, wobbled on the corner of the florist's awning, its synthetic fur matted with a fine layer of frozen mist. She sighed, a small cloud escaping her lips even inside the relatively warm space.

It was too soon, always too soon. Halloween barely packed away, and already the city was shouting 'Christmas!' at maximum volume. The radio, blessedly silent for now, would soon be an unending loop of jingle bells and saccharine carols. She hated it, a little. Or maybe ‘hated’ was too strong. It was just… exhausting. The pressure, the manufactured cheer. Everyone suddenly expected to be overjoyed, to find profound meaning in novelty socks and overpriced scented candles.

The bell above the door jingled, thin and tinny, and a woman in a heavy parka, her nose red from the cold, entered, shaking a flurry of melting snowflakes from her knitted toque. "Just a regular filter coffee, please," the woman mumbled, her voice hoarse, fumbling in her purse for change. Chloe nodded, pouring the dark liquid into a ceramic mug, the steam rising like a whisper. "Cream and sugar are on the counter," she said, her voice flat, tired. The woman just offered a small, appreciative nod, her eyes already scanning the pastry case, looking for something to justify the warmth.

Chloe watched her wrap her hands around the mug, the simple act a small beacon against the biting December air. Maybe it wasn't all bad. Maybe for some, it was just… a warm drink in a cold city. A small pause. But then the woman pulled out her phone, scrolled for a second, a frown etching itself between her brows, and the brief, quiet moment evaporated. The endless scroll, the endless to-do list, the relentless push.

Chloe leaned against the espresso machine, the faint hum a comforting vibration against her back. Her fingers, still chilly despite the warmth of the café, picked at a loose thread on her apron. She thought of her flatmate, who was already meticulously planning her gift budget, colour-coding spreadsheets. Chloe hadn't even bought a single roll of wrapping paper. It felt like walking into a party you hadn't been formally invited to, yet everyone acted like you were expected to bring the main course. It was just another year, another cycle of consumption, of trying to perform happiness on cue. Maybe this year, she’d just opt out. Go home, put on a bad movie, and ignore the whole thing. The thought brought a small, rebellious spark, quickly extinguished by the knowledge that her mother would never forgive her.

Mr. Petrov pulled the collar of his wool coat higher, his breath pluming in front of him like a ghost. The path through Assiniboine Park was dusted with a fresh, almost insulting layer of snow – just enough to make walking treacherous, not enough to truly blanket the ugliness of the dying year. His old boots crunched rhythmically on the icy patches, a familiar, melancholic sound. He’d lived in Winnipeg his entire seventy-four years, and every December felt like a well-worn page in a book, each turning a little heavier than the last.

He watched a young couple, bundled in matching scarves, struggle to push a pram through the uneven snow, their laughter carried away by the wind. They looked happy, genuinely so, and he felt a pang, not of envy, but of a quiet, distant longing for a simplicity he remembered. Back then, Christmas wasn’t a spectacle that began the moment Halloween was over. It was a slow, deliberate unfurling. The first real snow, the smell of woodsmoke from neighbours' chimneys, the quiet anticipation of the school concert.

He stopped by a gnarled oak, its bare branches reaching like skeletal fingers towards the leaden sky. A few weeks ago, this tree had been a riot of amber and russet. Now, it was stripped bare, vulnerable, a perfect mirror for the soul. He remembered a Christmas Eve, when he was just a boy, walking through this very park with his father. The snow had been deep then, muffling all sound, making the city feel distant and hushed. They’d seen a lone deer, its breath steaming, watching them from the shadows of the evergreens. A real moment, not something packaged and sold.

The memory brought a small, bittersweet smile to his lips. Now, the park was crisscrossed with thin, icy trails left by joggers and dog walkers, the silence broken by the drone of distant traffic. Progress, they called it. He wasn’t so sure. He thought of his own sons, grown now, living in other cities, sending polite, pre-written holiday cards. He’d tried to teach them the quiet beauty of it all, the stillness before the storm, but they’d been caught in the current, swept away by the bright, glittering demands of the modern season. He didn’t blame them. How could you fight a tide that strong?

He continued his slow pilgrimage, his hands tucked deep into his pockets. He passed a newly erected display of oversized, luminous plastic candy canes, their garish red and white stripes clashing violently with the natural beauty of the skeletal trees. He shook his head, a small, involuntary gesture. This was what Christmas had become: loud, demanding, insistent. He preferred the quiet, the snow-muffled hush, the promise of warmth from a distant window, not the blare of a thousand artificial lights. He yearned for the genuine chill, not the manufactured warmth. The genuine chill felt honest, at least.

Miriam threaded her way through the throng inside the downtown Hudson's Bay, the air thick with the scent of perfume samples and too many bodies. Her shopping bag, already heavy with a scarf for her sister and some small trinkets, dug into her shoulder. Christmas music, a saccharine rendition of 'Deck the Halls', pulsed through hidden speakers, making her teeth ache. She clutched a crumpled list in her hand, the ink smudged. 'Robot Dog, interactive, blue.' Easier said than done.

She’d been to three different stores already, each one a progressively more chaotic descent into holiday madness. Rows of glittering ornaments, stacks of garishly wrapped chocolates, mountains of plush toys. Her six-year-old, Leo, had seen the robot dog in a catalogue weeks ago and hadn't mentioned anything else since. It was the only thing on his list. The weight of that singular, earnest desire pressed down on her, heavier than her shopping bag. She knew, intellectually, that one toy wouldn't make or break his Christmas, but something in her, a deep, irrational maternal instinct, screamed that it *had* to be perfect.

A woman with a pushchair bumped into her, sending a cascade of small, colourful baubles clattering to the floor. Miriam murmured an apology, bending to help, but the woman was already pushing past, her face a mask of harried determination. Miriam straightened up, a dull ache starting behind her eyes. This wasn't joy. This was a war of attrition, fought with credit cards and diminishing patience. She felt the edges of her own cheer fraying, replaced by a desperate, almost primal need to just get through it.

She finally spotted the electronics section, a chaotic island of flashing lights and tinny demo music. A harried-looking salesperson, his tie askew, was attempting to placate a furious customer whose online order hadn't arrived. Miriam waited, trying to catch his eye, her internal clock ticking. Leo would be home from school soon, buzzing with questions about the day, about Santa, about… the robot dog. She needed to be home, calm, collected, not a dishevelled wreck smelling faintly of desperation and department store air freshener.

When she finally got the salesperson's attention, he just shook his head, a weary smile on his face. "Robot dog, blue, interactive? Sold out, madam. Weeks ago. Everyone wants one this year." Miriam felt a bubble of something hot and frustrated rise in her throat. "But… the catalogue said—" "Catalogue's just a suggestion, eh? We got the red one, if you like? Same functions." She looked at the red robot dog, a plastic monstrosity with vacant, glowing eyes. Leo hated red. He loved blue. It was a small detail, but to him, it was everything.

She left the store empty-handed, the cold outside a perverse relief after the stifling heat within. The early twilight had deepened, and the Christmas lights along Portage Avenue now shone with more conviction, transforming the slushy street into a tunnel of shimmering colour. Red, green, blue, yellow—each bulb a tiny, fierce defiance against the encroaching darkness. Miriam walked slower now, the weight on her shoulder gone, replaced by a different kind of burden. Leo's face, expectant and bright, floated in her mind's eye. She knew she'd find that blue robot dog. Somehow. She just didn’t know how, and the thought made her stomach clench with an unpleasant mix of determination and dread. The city, preparing for its grand festive performance, felt less like a celebration and more like a challenge.

The sky above Winnipeg was a bruise-purple, slowly deepening to black, but the ground glowed faintly with the reflected light of the city. A solitary snowflake, fat and deliberate, drifted past a streetlamp, catching the orange glow before melting into nothingness on the cold pavement. The season had truly begun, unyielding and all-consuming.