Frost on Memory's Pane

The streetlights, haloed and blurred by the falling snow, cast long, wavering shadows across the frosted glass. Leo traced a finger through the condensation, a momentary squiggle of warmth on the cold pane. He should be working. The commission for Mrs. Davies, the one with the two yappy terriers and a penchant for 'rustic charm,' was due in a week, and he’d barely touched the canvas in days. His easel stood forlorn in the corner, a half-finished landscape of a marsh in autumn, its colours muted and lifeless under the weak ceiling light.

A knock at the door, firm but not insistent, startled him. He hadn't heard the buzzer. Sylvie, then. Only Sylvie ignored the buzzer, trusting he'd eventually hear her insistent rap. He sighed, the sound fogging the glass further, and pushed away from the window, his old jumper snagging slightly on the rough sill. The floorboards groaned under his weight, a familiar complaint in the too-quiet apartment.

He pulled the door open, and a gust of cold air, smelling faintly of pine and wet wool, swept in. Sylvie stood there, a bright splash of colour against the dull hallway. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, and snow dusted the shoulders of her bright blue parka. In one hand, she clutched a paper bag that smelled deliciously of hot food; in the other, a small, garishly wrapped present.

"Thought you might actually starve," she said, her voice a little breathless, a small smile playing on her lips. "Your buzzer's dead, again. Or you're just ignoring it."

"Probably the latter," Leo mumbled, stepping aside to let her in. He shivered as the warmth of the flat tried to push back against the incoming chill. He was always cold, lately. No matter how many layers he wore, how high he cranked the heater, a deep-seated chill seemed to cling to his bones.

Sylvie kicked off her boots, leaving a small puddle of melting snow on the scuffed linoleum, and shucked off her coat, draping it over the back of the single, threadbare armchair. She set the food bag on his small, cluttered kitchen table, its contents radiating warmth. "I brought that Thai place you like. Extra spicy, just how you don't like it."

He managed a weak smile. "Hilarious."

"I try." She pulled out two containers and a pair of chopsticks. The aroma of peanut sauce and ginger filled the small space, momentarily pushing back the scent of stale coffee. "Come on. Eat. You look like you're about to blow away."

Leo pulled out a wobbly chair and sat, watching her. She always knew. Always knew when he hadn't eaten, when he was just drifting, caught in the undertow of whatever memory decided to surface that day. Today, it was the cold. The particular, biting cold of a December night, the kind that got under your clothes and into your soul.

He picked at a noodle, not really hungry. "You shouldn't have bothered."

"Don't be daft." Sylvie sat opposite him, her presence filling the room with an energy he often found both comforting and overwhelming. "It's nearly Christmas, Leo. You can't spend it holed up in here, subsisting on… whatever it is you subsist on."

His fork clinked against the ceramic dish. "Don't remind me."

"You'd rather just ignore it? Pretend December doesn't exist for the last two weeks?" Her voice was gentle, but there was an edge to it, a familiar, well-worn frustration.

He shrugged, pushing a piece of chicken around with his chopsticks. "What's the alternative? A tree? Tinsel? Forced cheer?"

Sylvie sighed, a soft expulsion of air. She paused, looking at him, her eyes soft and knowing. "It's been… what, eight years? Nine?"

"Eight." He corrected her, the word a dull thud in the quiet room. "Eight Christmases."

Echoes in the Embers

It wasn't just the fire itself that lingered, the memory of the acrid smoke stinging his eyes, the roar of the flames consuming the familiar, warm comfort of his childhood home. It was the aftermath. The endless stretch of grey days, the hollow stares of neighbours, the pitying looks. And the biting cold, then, too. That first Christmas after, spent in temporary accommodation, with borrowed blankets and the unsettling quiet of a house that wasn’t theirs. Every December since, the chill seeped in, bringing with it the ghosts of what was lost.

"We could… go to the market," Sylvie suggested, her voice barely above a whisper, trying to coax him back from the precipice of his thoughts. "Get some mulled wine. It's cheesy, but it's warm."

He shook his head, a knot tightening in his stomach. "No. I can't. Not with… all that."

"All what? The lights? The carols? People actually trying to find some joy?" There was a faint tremor in her voice now, a raw edge of her own pain beginning to show. She knew. She had been there, too. Not in the house, not when it burned, but in the immediate aftermath, a steadfast anchor in the swirling chaos.

"You know what," he said, looking up, meeting her gaze across the small table. Her eyes, usually so bright, held a deep sadness, reflecting his own. "You know what it is, Sylvie. Don't pretend you don't."

She pushed her plate away, the half-eaten noodles forgotten. "I know. God, I know. But we can't just… let it swallow us every year, Leo. It's not fair. To us. To them."

The mention of 'them' hung in the air, thick and unspoken. Their parents. Lost to the fire, lost to the cold December night that had stolen everything. He clenched his jaw, the muscle in his cheek jumping. It was always easier to just let the cold consume him, to let the memories dull the edges of the present. Better than feeling the sharp, insistent ache of what could have been.

"They wouldn't want this," Sylvie continued, her voice gaining a quiet strength. "They wouldn't want you living like a hermit, painting shadows instead of light. Not during Christmas, of all times."

"What do you know about what they'd want?" The words were out before he could stop them, sharp and unfair. He saw the flicker of hurt in her eyes, the way her shoulders tensed, and immediately regretted it. "I… I'm sorry."

She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. "No, you're not. You're scared. We both are. But running isn't making it easier, Leo. It's just making it longer."

A silence settled between them, broken only by the hiss of the space heater and the gentle tap of snow against the windowpane. He looked at the garishly wrapped gift she'd brought. It was probably a gag gift, a stupid festive hat, or a pair of novelty socks. Something to try and lighten the mood, to force a smile. He knew her playbook well.

"I don't need presents," he said, his voice softer now, the anger having drained away, leaving only exhaustion.

"No, you don't." Sylvie reached across the table, her fingers briefly touching his, cold against his skin. "But maybe… maybe we need to actually talk about it this year. Properly. Not just skirt around the edges, avoiding every flash of red and green."

He looked down at their intertwined fingers. Her hand was small, practical, scarred from years of clumsy kitchen work and gardening. His own were stained with paint, rough and calloused. He thought about the chill seeping into the flat, how the warmth of her hand was a fragile, temporary barrier against it.

"What's there to talk about?" he whispered, knowing, even as he said it, that there was everything.

"Everything," she said, squeezing his hand gently before releasing it. "The cold. The fire. The way we still flinch at the smell of burning wood, even years later. The way you disappear into yourself every December. Everything. Because if we don't, it'll just keep happening. Every single year."

He looked back at the window, the snow still falling, steady and relentless, erasing the world outside. The thought of confronting it all, of peeling back the layers of carefully constructed denial, made his stomach clench. It felt like opening a wound he’d spent years trying to scab over. But looking at Sylvie, at the weary determination in her eyes, he knew she was right. They couldn't outrun it anymore. The ghost of that December night demanded more than just avoidance. It demanded to be acknowledged, perhaps even healed.

"Okay," he said, the word a dry, rasping sound in his throat. "Okay, then. Where do we even start?"

Sylvie gave him a small, wobbly smile, a flicker of something fragile but persistent. She reached for her forgotten food, then paused, her gaze settling on the window, then on the unlit Christmas present. The real fight, he realised, was only just beginning.