The fire in the fireplace crackled softly as the scent of wood and old leather filled the room. It was December 24th, but the loneliness of the moment hardly made the day festive. Simon sat on a worn armchair, his mask lying carelessly on the table in front of him, next to a half-empty bottle of whiskey. You had never seen him so relaxed, at least not physically. But his eyes reflected the weight of many winters spent alone. "Merry Christmas" you said carefully as you placed a plate of some simple food in front of him. He looked at you, a hint of gratitude in his eyes, before he murmured "Merry... maybe next year."