Glacial Bloom and Shifting Lights

Margot adjusted the rearview mirror, checking the mostly empty seats behind her. Forty-three minutes until her shift ended. The number hung in the chill air of the bus cabin, solid and unavoidable. Outside, Portage Avenue was a flickering tunnel of red and green, the store windows aggressively bright. Every third billboard screamed about a sale, a perfect gift, a reason to buy. She felt the vibrations of the engine more than heard them, a low thrumming that had become a constant companion, a dull ache behind her ribs.

A woman in a thick, woollen coat, her face pinched, boarded at Main Street. She fumbled with her fare card, fingers stiff with cold, then offered Margot a thin, forced smile. “Cold out,” she mumbled, pulling her scarf higher. Margot just nodded, the action automatic. What else was there to say? It was December in Winnipeg. Cold was the default.

She watched the city slide by. Families bundled in matching parkas hurried across intersections, hands clasped. Teenagers, faces buried in phones, navigated icy patches with surprising grace. Every year, around this time, a strange tension settled over the city. A forced cheerfulness, like a tight, uncomfortable shoe. She’d seen too many Christmases from behind this wheel, too many desperate last-minute shoppers, too many lonely faces staring out the glass, reflecting the garish lights.

The bus slowed for a pedestrian, a young lad, probably not much older than her own son, pulling a small, battered sled. He had a scruffy dog on a leash, tail wagging like a metronome, kicking up powdery snow. Margot felt a flicker of something, a ghost of a memory from when her boy was small, before the edges of everything got quite so worn. The memory, a brief warmth, was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the familiar ache.

Echoes in the Exchange

Leo hated shopping. Correction, Leo hated *Christmas* shopping. It was a specific, festering kind of hatred, like a splinter under a fingernail. He clutched the strap of his backpack, its weight digging into his shoulder as he was jostled through the Polo Park mall. The air was thick with too many perfumes, too many sugar cookies, and the relentless, tinny jingle of 'Jingle Bell Rock' from three different stores, all slightly out of sync.

He needed to get something for his mum, his dad, his sister, his weird Uncle David who always gave him socks. His wallet felt suspiciously thin, a sad, deflated thing in his back pocket. He’d spent most of his last paycheque on textbooks. University was a money pit, a beautiful, necessary, terrifying money pit. He squinted at a display of glittering jewellery, knowing full well he couldn’t afford anything beyond a novelty keychain.

He bumped into someone, a woman with a mountain of brightly coloured bags. “Oh, sorry!” he mumbled, adjusting his glasses. She just grunted and moved on, her expression grim. Everyone looked grim, he thought. Even the kids, dragged along by their parents, had a kind of weary acceptance in their eyes. The Christmas magic was mostly for the advertisements, he figured. For the rest of them, it was a gauntlet.

His phone buzzed. A text from his mate, Julian. 'U free 2nite? Beers at the Fort?' Leo sighed, a small puff of steam against the cool glass of a department store window. 'Nah, gotta finish up here. Still need presents.' Julian’s reply was almost immediate: 'Good luck, soldier. The trenches are deep.' Leo almost smiled. It was true, wasn’t it? A battle against blandness and unaffordability.

He wandered into a bookstore, the scent of paper and ink a welcome respite from the cloying sweetness outside. He browsed the science fiction section, tracing a finger over a worn spine. Maybe a book? But his mum preferred puzzles, his dad biographies, and his sister was into, like, graphic novels now. It was too complicated. He just wanted to curl up with a hot chocolate and ignore the entire season.

Beatrice watched the snow fall from her third-floor window, a mug of Earl Grey steaming in her hands. The flakes were large, lazy things, drifting down past the bare branches of the elm tree across the street. Her small apartment was warm, a little too warm perhaps, and smelled faintly of lavender and old paper. The Christmas tree, a modest artificial spruce she’d hauled out of the basement storage, stood in the corner, unadorned. Not yet. Not today.

She traced the condensation on the windowpane with her finger. Thirty-seven years. Thirty-seven Christmases with Albert. The memory of him, a large, comforting presence, was a soft hum beneath the surface of her everyday. She could almost hear his booming laugh, smell the pipe tobacco he used to smoke in his study. The scent, like all the best memories, was bittersweet, a phantom limb that still ached.

Her neighbour, a young woman named Clara, had offered to help her decorate. “Whenever you’re ready, Beatrice,” she’d chirped a few days ago, a bright, earnest smile on her face. Beatrice had thanked her, promised to call. But the thought of going through the boxes of ornaments, each one a tiny capsule of a past moment, felt too heavy. Too much. Maybe tomorrow.

She took a sip of tea, the warmth spreading through her. Outside, a group of carol singers, barely audible through the thick glass, passed by the building. Their voices, thin and reedy, carried a tune she didn't quite recognise. Not like the carols from her youth, the ones Albert used to sing, slightly off-key, while he carved the turkey. Those were the real carols, imbued with the weight of years and shared warmth.

She moved away from the window, her knees a little stiff, and settled into her armchair, the worn velvet familiar beneath her fingers. On the small table beside her, a pile of Christmas cards lay unopened. She’d get to them. Eventually. For now, the quiet hum of the building, the gentle falling snow, and the steady thrum of her own memories were enough. More than enough, some days. A small, solitary peace in the gathering dark.

Margot pulled the bus into the depot, the air brakes hissing. Her shift was finally over. She watched the last passenger, a bundled-up man with a grocery bag, disappear into the blustery night. The city lights, once so bright, now seemed to shimmer with a tired resignation. She turned off the engine, and the sudden silence in the cabin was almost deafening. Just the faint groan of cooling metal. Another day, another round of seeing the festive veneer of the season. She gathered her bag, her joints stiff, and stepped out into the biting wind, knowing the endless cycle of expectation and melancholy was only just beginning.

Leo found himself in a crowded coffee shop, the warmth a welcome reprieve. He ordered a small black coffee, the cheapest thing on the menu, and found a corner seat. He pulled out his laptop, trying to focus on an essay, but his mind kept drifting back to the mall, the desperate faces, the jingle bells. He felt a weird, unsettling mix of exhaustion and a strange, nascent rebellion. Maybe he wouldn’t buy anyone anything this year. Maybe he’d just… make something. He didn’t know what, but the thought, fleeting and impractical, offered a small, illicit spark against the encroaching holiday gloom.

Beatrice switched on a small, ornate lamp beside her armchair. Its light, a soft, yellow glow, illuminated a framed photograph on the side table: Albert, younger, beaming, holding a tiny, squealing terrier. He looked so happy. So alive. She picked up the frame, her thumb brushing over the cool glass. The silence of the apartment felt deeper now, punctuated only by the distant, almost imagined, sound of a carol. Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow, she would decorate the tree. But as she set the photo down, her gaze drifted to the darkest corner of the room, where shadows clung like forgotten memories, waiting for the light to truly fade.

The city breathed, a cold, slow inhale, as the snow continued to fall, burying the pavement, muffling the world. And within its frosted heart, three distinct lives, unaware of each other, carried the weight of the season, each facing their own particular quiet storm.

The bus, now empty, sat dormant in the depot, its windows gathering frost, while a lone Christmas star, haphazardly strung over Portage Avenue, flickered, just for a moment, as if struggling to stay alight against the deepening chill.