The Weight of Ghostlight

The thermostat had given up trying hours ago, or perhaps Audra had simply stopped noticing its futility. Her breath plumed faintly in the air, a miniature, fleeting cloud that dissolved before her eyes, much like most of her thoughts these days. Her fingers were stiff around the mug, the ceramic radiating a heat that felt foreign, almost aggressive against her cold skin. The faint, sweet smell of pine from a candle she hadn’t lit yesterday clung to the air, a cruel parody of celebration. Everything felt suspended, caught in a kind of visual static, like an old television screen struggling to find a signal.

She should move. Get up. Do something. But the sofa held her, its springs groaning a familiar protest each time she shifted, anchoring her to the present, or rather, to the immediate, unbearable absence of it. Across the room, on the chipped laminate of the coffee table, a single wrapped present sat. It was small, cube-shaped, and she couldn't for the life of her remember who it was for, or even why it was still there, a lone, colourful beacon in a sea of beige apathy. Her gaze drifted to the window, the glass beaded with condensation, blurring the already indistinct world outside. Just more grey, more winter.

Echoes of Holly and Laughter

The memory arrived unbidden, as they always did, not a gentle drift but a sudden, sharp intake of breath. It wasn't the big moments she remembered first, not the elaborate dinners or the exchanged gifts. It was the hum. The low, resonant hum of the old fridge in her grandmother’s kitchen, a constant backdrop to the chaos of Christmas Eve. That sound, so mundane, now felt like a portal. She could almost taste the burnt sugar of her grandmother’s shortbread, feel the stiff, slightly damp wool of her father's sweater against her cheek as he hoisted her up to put the star on the tree. Her own voice, a child's clear, bright thing, yelling about a tangle of tinsel.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but the images persisted, sharp and unwelcome. The last proper Christmas. Before the quiet began to spread, before the empty chairs outnumbered the full ones. She was seven. Or maybe eight. The age didn't quite matter, only the sheer, overwhelming *presence* of everyone. The clatter of cutlery, the burst of laughter from the living room, the hushed, conspiratorial whispers of the adults. It was a cacophony that now felt like a lost symphony, a language she no longer understood.

A dull ache throbbed behind her eyes. No, not a symphony. A mess. A beautiful, glorious mess of people and noise and sticky fingers and arguments over the last mince pie. And then, at the centre of it all, always him. Her grandfather. His booming laugh, the way his spectacles would slide down his nose when he leaned in to tell a secret, the faint scent of pipe tobacco and old books that always clung to his tweed jacket. He made everything feel sturdy, unbreakable. He was the anchor, and when he went, the whole ship had drifted, listing gently into an infinite, silent sea.

A Frozen Tableau

Audra pushed herself off the sofa, a jolt of pins and needles shooting up her left leg. She hobbled towards the small, dust-filmed bookshelf, more from a lack of other direction than any real purpose. Her fingers traced the spines of old paperbacks, their covers faded, some bent from careless handling. She wasn't looking for anything, not really. Just trying to outrun the hum of the fridge, the ghost of pipe tobacco. Her hand brushed against a small, leather-bound photo album tucked behind a collection of gardening books. It was thin, the leather cracked along the spine, a forgotten artefact.

She pulled it out, a cloud of fine dust blooming around it. The first few pages held grainy, sepia-toned images of ancestors she barely recognised, stern faces staring out from a different century. She flipped past them, past her parents' awkward wedding photos, past holiday snaps of her as a toddler, chubby-cheeked and beaming. Then she found it. A snapshot, tucked loosely into a corner slot, slightly askew. It was creased down the middle, the colours muted, but unmistakably clear.

It was him. Her grandfather. Sitting in his favourite armchair, the one with the faded floral pattern, a half-eaten plate of Christmas pudding on the small table beside him. He was wearing a ridiculous paper crown from a cracker, tilted precariously on his head, and one hand was reaching out, not quite touching, but gesturing towards something just out of frame. The corner of his mouth was turned up in a soft, knowing smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes, showing the genuine delight underneath. The light in the photograph was warm, buttery, hitting his silver hair like a blessing. A child's hand, small and pudgy, was just visible at the edge of the frame, reaching back towards his. Her hand.

She remembered the moment. She'd been trying to steal a bit of cream off his pudding, giggling, and he'd caught her, not with a scolding, but with that smile. The air had been thick with the scent of spices and evergreen. Outside, snow had been falling, fat, lazy flakes clinging to the windowpanes. Inside, it had felt like the warmest place in the world. Unbreakable. Eternal. A single tear, cold and sharp, traced a path down her cheek. It didn't feel dramatic. It just felt… like a small leak from a slowly freezing pipe.

She ran her thumb over the image, over the faint crease in the centre. The paper was cool beneath her touch. He looked so real, so solid, as if she could step into the frame and sit on his knee, just one more time. Tell him all the things she hadn't got to say. Ask him what it was like, that deep, quiet drifting. Did it hurt? Was there a light? Did he still hum? She knew, rationally, that the answers were beyond her, beyond the fading colours of a photograph, beyond the confines of this small, cold apartment.

A Shiver in the Stillness

The room had grown darker, the grey outside deepening to a bruised purple. Audra hadn't noticed the passage of time. Her fingers still clutched the photograph, the edges digging slightly into her palm. The silence in the flat was no longer static; it had become an oppressive weight, pushing in on her, filling every corner, every unlit space. Her own breathing sounded too loud, a ragged, uneven thing in the suffocating quiet. She let her gaze wander from the photograph, scanning the familiar, yet suddenly alien, details of her living room.

The unlit tree. The forgotten present. The coffee mug, now stone cold. Everything was exactly as it had been, yet subtly different. The memory had changed the texture of the air, made the present feel thinner, more brittle. She felt a shiver, not from the cold, but from something deeper, something that prickled the hairs on her arms. A sense of being watched, perhaps. Or simply the unbearable weight of her own solitude magnified by the echoes of a past so rich, so full of warmth.

Then, it happened. A faint scratching sound. Not from inside the apartment. From the window, or perhaps just beyond the thin wall of the building. It was soft, hesitant, like something brushing against brick, or perhaps... claws. Audra froze, the photograph slipping from her grasp to land with a soft thud on the threadbare rug. Her head snapped towards the sound, her heart suddenly hammering against her ribs, a frantic, frantic bird trapped in a cage.

She told herself it was the wind. Or a branch. This building was old, and the winter winds could whistle through cracks, could make the most mundane things sound sinister. But the scratching wasn't consistent like the wind. It was deliberate. A slow, rhythmic rasp, closer now, just outside her window, as if something was patiently, persistently, trying to get in. Her gaze was fixed on the condensation-streaked pane, her muscles tensing, every nerve screaming. What was out there? And why, after all this silence, had it chosen Christmas Day to come calling?

The sound stopped. A heavy, unsettling quiet descended again. Audra held her breath, listening, straining her ears for any further disturbance. Nothing. Just the faint, distant drone of a car on the street below, and the frantic thumping of her own blood. She slowly, deliberately, took a step towards the window, her hand reaching out, not to open it, but to wipe away the condensation, to see what lay beyond the blurred glass, to confront the source of the chilling, uninvited interruption. Just as her fingers brushed the cold pane, the scratching began again, louder this time, accompanied by a faint, low snuffling sound.

Her breath hitched, a tiny gasp caught in her throat. Whatever was out there, it was alive. And it was very close.