𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟓 | 𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃

bill furlong trudged up the hill towards his home, stepping over the cracked stones like muscle memory. his jacket was pulled tightly around his tense shoulders, thinned from wear, dusted with the snow that had been falling since dawn.

he unlocked the door, taking off his coat and heading into the bathroom. he pulled off the beanie that covered the greying tips of his hair. he turned on the tap, looking up from the gentle stream of water, up to the reflection of an, unrecognisable, sad old man. the brush scraped against his dirt covered hands until his skin was red, lost in the worries that consumed his thoughts. but when his hands started to sting, he snapped out of it. his hands were red, but clean, although his nails were still crusted with coal.

once he’d gathered his worried thoughts, he heard gentle singing. the familiar voices of his girls. his heart fluttered despite himself, a small smile crossing his tired face at the knowledge that his daughters were here. he wiped a hand across his fatigued eyes, trudging out into the simple kitchen. there, his five daughters sat around the wooden table, making their traditional christmas cake, singing cheerily a rendition of bing crosby’s white christmas that they had heard on the radio that morning.