Small towns never forget and never forgive.
A gust of snow sweeps through the square, tearing the banner loose, and it tumbles end over end before it catches on a pine branch. The red ink bleeds down the letters and into my face like blood on paper.
“Fucking town,” I mutter to myself as I slowly make my way towards the dumpster and chuck my cup in before resuming my walk. The dead roots crunch through slush. The wind carries the caroller's song after me—faint and broken, a single line repeating over and over until it’s just noise.
He sees you when you’re sleeping… He knows when you're awake.
A Christmas song shouldn’t have my blood turning ice cold and my eyes widening, the words holding me hostage as it echoes off the mountains.
Yet it does.
It takes me a moment before I head back towards my car, but I swear I can still hear the lyrics repeating over and over again. I think that’s where the discomfort comes into play. The sound melody, while distorted, continues to flow through the air. When I get to my car, I open the door, only to notice a flake of paper sitting on the black leather driver's seat.
Quickly, I crane my neck, looking around me, trying to find who put this in there. My doors were locked, I’m sure of it. I let out a breath, the tip of my nose numb from the cold. There’s no one out here, nothing but empty cars dusted in white. I return my focus to the note, the edges soaked and curling into itself—it’s a flyer from the town plaza. Confusion clouds my mind. Lifting my head, I look over the parking lot once again, but the only footsteps left in the snow are mine.
Focusing back on the paper, I see my face smiling above the words:
Again, for the third time today, I’ve found my face vandalized. This time, someone scrawled across my eyes in red, thick ink.
I’M AWAKE.
What the fuck? What does that even mean?
The bells stop chiming, and the streets go still as the snow continues to fall around me. And for the first time since I came back, I remember why I hate Christmas.
3
The Eve Shift
The storm comes in sideways, turning Main Street into a sheet of white static by four o’clock. Soon, everything will shut down due to the weather, and a ping in my pocket tells me the first thing to die is the annual “Miracle Gala.” My first time ever attending, and it looks like the Christmas spirit itself does not want that. The PR group chat continues to ping, messages with exclamation points and snowflake emojis flood the screen as if the weather is God’s own marketing plan. Typing out my reply, I send the only response they will need.
Me:
Pivot to remote giving. Post the donation link. Tell them I’m devastated.
I’m not.
I continue my drive back towards the cabin, the storm following me home. By the time I make it there, the driveway is buried under a white curtain, and the pines bend low likepenitents. It’s the kind of night people in Jollytown dream of perfect postcard snow that makes you forget frostbite exists.
Fortunately, the sight does little to a man like me. Putting the car into park and grabbing my phone, I scroll through the endless emails, some wish me happy holidays, others requesting time off—all of which I ignore, except for the ones requesting a timeline of arrivals. Work never stops, not even for the rich.
Each contract, each sale I acquired, only made my greed greater…
After fifteen minutes, I finally step out of the car and walk inside. Dropping my keys into a white bowl before removing my black coat and my shoes, I saunter over to the small living room and light the hearth just enough to watch the flames catch.
I grab a glass container holding some kind of expensive bourbon and a small glass, before walking towards the small adjoining kitchen. The smell of cedar and smoke fills the lodge. It’s supposed to feel like peace, but all I hear is the faint hum of my laptop waking up on the counter. Focusing on the device, I lean into the wooden counter top, my index finger dragging the touchpad as I navigate through my apps.
Before long, I find my way into my inbox, which blinks with panic—suppliers delayed, shipments stalled, warehouse crews begging to clock out early, all while I take a sip of the bourbon I just poured. Loosening my tie, I ignore every excuse and begin to type.
Me:
No one buys happiness after midnight. We deliver now, or we lose them to someone else. Christmas doesn’t stop for the underachievers.
A ping from the company group chat catches my attention.
Emily:
Mr. Porter, I’m sorry. I have to go home soon, it’s Christmas Eve.
