Christmas Eve never sounded like this.

No bells. No laughter.
Only the low hum of the heater and the distant crackle of a radio somewhere outside the safehouse.

Simon sat across the room, back against the wall, skull mask still on. He hadn’t taken it off all evening. You didn’t ask him to. Some days, survival came wrapped in fabric and bone white paint.

You held a mug between your hands. The tea had gone cold a long time ago.

“Did you ever celebrate?” you asked quietly.

