The Tinsel

Lyra confronts the ghosts of past Christmases, while Frank tries to navigate the festive tension and Aunt Marri offers quiet solace. The memories of a fractured holiday season linger, threatening to overwhelm the present.

The kitchen air felt thick, not just with the scent of stale coffee and something faintly metallic from the ancient plumbing, but with an unspoken weight. Lyra traced the condensation on the window with a finger, leaving a transient smear. Outside, the world was a study in muted greys and skeletal branch structures. Inside, the silence hummed, punctuated only by the occasional groan of the old house settling into its bones.

Her gaze kept drifting to the box near the hearth. Cardboard, stained brown from years of handling, reinforced with tape that had long lost its stick and was now merely there out of habit. It contained, she knew, the family's Christmas decorations. Each year, the box emerged, usually with a fanfare of rustling paper and forced cheer. This year, it sat, a mute, demanding presence, a forgotten sentinel in the corner.

Lyra had managed to ignore it for three days. Three days of short, clipped answers when Frank had mentioned 'getting things out,' three days of pointedly choosing the farthest chair in the living room, her back resolutely to its bulky form. It was pathetic, she knew. A grown woman, terrified of tinsel. But it wasn't the tinsel, not really. It was what the tinsel represented, what it dragged back with it, like cold water seeping into cracks.

A sharp, distinct scrape of boots on the porch, then the jingle of keys. Frank. She didn't turn. The sound of him shedding his winter coat in the hallway, a soft thud. He’d probably been out at the hardware store again, buying some obscure bolt or a length of pipe for a project that would inevitably stretch into January. His ceaseless, gentle energy usually a comfort, felt today like a persistent, buzzing fly.

"Lyra?" His voice, warm and a little too bright for the grey afternoon, drifted into the kitchen. He appeared in the doorway, hands stuffed into the pockets of his worn corduroys, a fine sheen of cold still on his cheekbones. "You alright?" He didn't wait for an answer, didn’t really need one. His eyes, quick and assessing, landed on the box by the hearth, then back to her. He understood. He always did.

"Just… chilly," she managed, rubbing her arms. A clumsy, almost automatic gesture. She felt the slight rasp of the flannel against her skin, a small, grounding detail in the swirling unease within her. The faint smell of woodsmoke from the chimney was usually comforting, but today it just felt heavy, clinging.

Frank nodded, a tiny dip of his chin. He moved towards the box, not with intention, but as if drawn by a faint magnetic pull. He squatted, a grunt escaping him as his old knees protested. He ran a hand over the sun-faded cardboard. "Think it’s time, eh? Only a week out."

Lyra felt a familiar knot tighten in her chest. *Only a week out.* The words echoed with a hollowness that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. She thought of the frantic, last-minute dash for wrapping paper that year, the bright, artificial glow of the tree, the forced smiles, the brittle tension that had snapped into a thousand irreparable pieces right there, on Christmas Eve.

"Or not," she said, her voice tighter than she’d intended. She turned from the window, leaning against the cold countertop, arms now crossed. Her gaze snagged on the fine cracks spiderwebbing across the wall above the stove, patterns she knew intimately, each one a tiny map of the house’s slow decay.

Frank looked up, his expression softening, a flicker of pain in his eyes. He didn’t push. He rarely did, not directly. He just sat there, beside the box, a silent companion in the quiet struggle. He picked at a loose thread on his cuff, then shifted his weight. A faint sigh, barely audible.

---

It was Aunt Marri who broke the stalemate. Her old Volvo, sounding like a tired, asthmatic beast, rumbled up the driveway a few hours later. Lyra heard the familiar crunch of tyres on gravel, then Marri’s determined knock at the back door. Her presence, always a gentle, steady force, felt like a small, unexpected thaw.

Marri entered, bringing with her the crisp scent of winter air and a faint, sweet aroma of pine. She set a small, brown paper bag – undoubtedly containing a fresh batch of her famous shortbread – on the counter, then looked from Lyra to Frank, then to the box. She didn’t need an explanation. Marri saw everything, and said very little.

"That old thing," Marri murmured, gesturing to the box. Her voice, soft and a little raspy, held no judgment, only a deep, weary affection. She walked over, her movements slow but deliberate, and knelt beside Frank. He offered her a small, tight smile. Marri patted his arm, then reached for the lid of the box, not asking, simply doing.

The tape tore with a dry, ripping sound. Dust puffed out, catching in a beam of sunlight that had, against all odds, just broken through the clouds. Inside, nestled amongst layers of tissue paper and yellowed newspaper, were the ghosts. A string of fairy lights with several burnt-out bulbs. A faded velvet stocking, hand-stitched. And then, at the very top, almost as if placed there deliberately, a ceramic angel. Her wings, once a delicate gold, were now chipped and dull, and one of her outstretched arms was broken clean off.

Lyra felt her breath catch. The angel. The same one. The memory hit her with the physical force of a cold wave. Not a gentle ripple, but a sudden, immersive shock. She saw the angel, whole and gleaming, perched precariously atop the wobbly tree. She saw her father, laughing, as he adjusted it, the scent of pine sap and his aftershave filling the room. She saw… the flash of argument in her brother’s eyes, the tightening of her mother’s lips, the sudden, terrible silence that had fallen like a shroud over the entire house.

### Echoes in Ceramic

It had been snowing, a proper blizzard, the kind that coated everything in an impossible, pristine white. But inside, the air had been anything but pure. Lyra, only eight, remembered the hushed, angry whispers, her brother, Tobias, retreating to his room, slamming the door so hard the little ceramic angel had wobbled precariously on its topmost branch. Her mother, face pale, trying to pretend everything was fine, arranging plates of mince pies on the good china. Her father, usually jovial, standing stiffly by the window, staring out at the falling snow, his shoulders hunched. It was the year Tobias had announced he was leaving, not just for university, but for good, cutting ties, fueled by a secret grievance no one spoke aloud. The angel, a gift from their grandmother, had tumbled hours later, unnoticed amidst the frantic, tearful goodbyes. Its broken arm had been a prophecy, a silent testament to a holiday fractured beyond repair.

She remembered the sound of it, a tiny, sharp *clink* on the polished floorboards, completely overshadowed by the roar of her father's car pulling out of the drive, taking Tobias to the train station, and then the louder, more devastating sound of her mother’s sob breaking through the forced quiet. The image of the angel, lying in pieces on the rug, while her parents stood frozen, facing each other with an ocean of unspoken words between them, was etched into her mind with a clarity that stung.

Lyra snatched the broken angel from the box, her fingers brushing against Marri’s. The ceramic was cold, rough where the arm had snapped. It fit perfectly in the palm of her hand, a small, tangible piece of a larger, splintered past. She turned it over, examining the smooth, unpainted break. There was no fixing it, not really. It could be glued, perhaps, made to look whole from a distance, but the crack would always be there, a scar beneath the surface.

"Tobias loved this one," Marri said softly, her voice barely a whisper, as if reading Lyra’s thoughts. She didn’t look at Lyra, but kept her gaze fixed on the contents of the box, as though searching for other lost things. "Remember? He tried to balance it on the dog's head one year, almost broke it then, too."

A ghost of a smile touched Lyra’s lips, fleeting, sad. She remembered. Tobias, all mischief and chaotic energy. Before the silence. Before the chasm. Her parents had been so angry that year. Not just at Tobias for the angel, but at each other, for everything. The angel had just been the last straw, the final, fragile thing to break.

Frank, still kneeling, reached out and gently took the angel from Lyra's hand. He turned it over, his thumb tracing the jagged edge where the arm had been. His jaw was tight, a muscle working beneath his skin. He hadn't been there, not for that specific Christmas, but he knew the story, knew the long shadow it cast over Lyra’s family, over *them*. He placed it back in the box, carefully, almost reverently, amongst the crumpled tissue paper.

The silence returned, heavier now, laden with shared history. It wasn’t a comfortable silence, but it wasn't hostile either. It was simply… present. A truce, perhaps. Marri finally looked at Lyra, her eyes, rheumy with age, holding a deep well of understanding. She reached out, her hand, surprisingly warm and firm, briefly covering Lyra’s own.

"Some things," Marri said, her voice a little stronger now, "are meant to break. And some things… some things, even when broken, still hold the light. You just have to decide what you’re going to do with the pieces."

Lyra looked from Marri’s knowing gaze to the open box, then to Frank, who was now slowly, methodically, pulling out a tangled string of lights. The broken angel lay within, a silent, stark reminder. The cold in the room suddenly felt less oppressive, but the weight in her chest remained, an unyielding stone. Marri’s words echoed, a quiet challenge in the gathering gloom. The holidays were coming, whether she opened that box of memories or not. And the pieces, she knew, were still sharp enough to cut.