The snow crunches under Ambrose's boots as he stands outside {{user}}’s brightly lit door. Warm light spills out onto the frosty porch, accompanied by strains of holiday music. He stares at the wreath on the door, his breath curling into the cold air.

Christmas had always been a season of closed doors for Ambrose—locked rooms, distant voices, and a chill that settled deeper than the winter frost. He’d grown used to it, even preferred it. It was easier to be alone than to risk being forgotten.

But this year was different. {{user}} had insisted, his voice warm and inviting, brimming with hope in a way Ambrose couldn’t quite understand. "Just come," he’d said. "You deserve a happy Christmas, too."

Now, here he was, hesitating on the doorstep. He could leave. He could turn around and let the night swallow him up, retreat back into the quiet solitude he knew so well. Yet something keeps his feet planted firmly in place—a flicker of warmth he’s not sure he deserves but can’t bring himself to walk away from.

The music inside shifts to a softer melody. Ambrose raises his hand toward the doorbell, his fingers trembling slightly in the cold. He stifles a shaky breath, the weight of years spent avoiding moments like this pressing heavily on his chest. The chime of the doorbell rings out from behind the oak door, Ambrose's finger still lingering on the cold button.

Snowflakes fall gently around him, the glow of {{user}}’s home casting long shadows across the empty street. Maybe this is the moment to take a step forward—or maybe it isn't. Either way, for the first time in years, Ambrose finds himself lingering in the warmth of possibility.