That evening, the house hummed with quiet anticipation. Tomorrow was Christmas, and the weight of the season settled over them in an unspoken hush.
The scent of baked goods lingered in the air, warm and spiced, a reminder that Aunt Beatrice had been in the kitchen for hours preparing for the next day. The soft crackling of the fireplace filled the silence as Dalian curled up on the couch, absentmindedly flipping through an old magazine, her mind elsewhere.
Diane sat by the window, watching the night deepen. Snow hadn't fallen yet, but the air outside looked crisp, the world wrapped in winter's quiet embrace.
Then, the sound of a car pulling up outside broke through the stillness.
Aunt Beatrice wiped her hands on her apron, peeking through the curtains. "He's here," she murmured, a warmth in her voice that was rare these days.
Dalian exchanged a glance with Diane.
Aunt Beatrice's husband, Mr. Gerald, was a man of few words but steady kindness. He had been away for work, and his presence had been more absence than comfort in their lives. Still, he tried in his own way, and tonight was no different.
The front door opened, and a gust of cold air swept in as Mr. Gerald stepped inside, dusting off his coat. He was a tall man, slightly gruff in appearance, but there was a gentleness to the way he looked at his wife.
Aunt Beatrice took his coat without a word, and he handed her a small bag. Then, he turned to the girls, clearing his throat.
"I brought something for you."
Dalian sat up immediately, curiosity flickering in her eyes. Diane remained still, watching.
Mr. Gerald reached into a large paper bag and pulled out two carefully wrapped packages. He handed one to each of them, the crisp wrapping rustling in their hands.
Dalian was the first to open hers, gasping as she pulled out a soft, elegant dress—a deep burgundy with subtle gold embroidery along the hem. Diane's was a deep navy, classic and understated.
"These are beautiful," Dalian breathed, running her fingers over the fabric.
"You picked these?"
Mr. Gerald gave a small nod. "Beatrice helped."
Dalian pressed the dress against her chest, twirling slightly. "Of course."
Aunt Beatrice rolled her eyes but smiled.
Diane, still holding her dress in her lap, forced a small smile. "Thank you."
The mood should have been bright, filled with excitement, but as the fabric rested in their hands, something heavier settled over them.
Christmas.
Once upon a time, it had been grand—full of laughter, warmth, family. Their parents had always made sure of that. Their mother would hum carols as she decorated the house, their father would sneak extra gifts under the tree, pretending they were from Santa even when they were too old to believe.
Now, it was different.
Diane glanced at Dalian, whose excitement had dimmed, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the embroidery on her dress. The weight of the holiday pressed down on them, suffocating in its absence of joy.
And then there was Uncle Lucas.
The thought of him darkened the moment further, like a shadow stretching over their memories.
Mr. Gerald shifted, sensing the change in atmosphere. He wasn't an emotional man, but he wasn't oblivious either. "I know this Christmas won't be easy," he said, his voice low but firm. "But it's still yours. However you choose to spend it."
Aunt Beatrice touched his arm, a silent agreement passing between them.
Dalian remained quiet, gripping the dress tightly. Diane simply held onto hers a little tighter, her gaze flickering to the fire.
The warmth of the room felt distant. No matter how many gifts were given, no matter how many decorations hung around them—Christmas would never feel the same again.
The village was alive with the spirit of Christmas. Bells chimed in the distance, and the crisp winter air carried the scent of fresh-baked pastries and burning firewood. Colorful ribbons adorned the streets, and children ran past with laughter, their cheeks flushed from the cold. Every house, every shop seemed to glow with warmth and celebration.
Lydia, dressed in a soft red sweater and woolen scarf, rushed through the streets with uncontainable excitement. Church had been beautiful—the choir's voices still echoed in her mind, and the warmth of the morning prayers filled her heart with joy. Christmas was here, and she couldn't wait to share the happiness with her best friends.
She spotted Diane and Dalian sitting on the wooden bench outside their home, their hands tucked inside their sleeves. The festive air that surrounded the village seemed to fade as she got closer. There was no sparkle of excitement in their eyes, no wide grins or playful banter. They sat in silence, staring at the ground, lost in thoughts she couldn't quite reach.
Lydia's excitement dimmed as concern crept into her voice. "Hey! Merry Christmas!" She spread her arms dramatically. "It's a joyful day! Why do you both look like someone stole your presents?"
Dalian managed a small smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. Diane simply looked away, as if trying to shield herself from Lydia's energy.
Lydia frowned, dropping onto the bench beside them. "Okay, what's going on? This isn't like you. Talk to me."
For a moment, neither sister spoke. Dalian's fingers fidgeted with the hem of her coat, while Diane's gaze remained distant. The silence stretched between them, heavy and unspoken.
Lydia sighed. "I'm your best friend. If something's wrong, I deserve to know." Her voice was softer now, patient. "I won't push, but I'm here."
Dalian inhaled deeply, her breath shaky. She glanced at Diane, silently asking for permission. Diane didn't respond, but she didn't stop her either.
With a hesitant voice, Dalian finally spoke. "Christmas… isn't the same for us."
Lydia's brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"
Dalian swallowed. "It used to be magical. Our parents… they made it special. The lights, the warmth, the laughter—it wasn't just a holiday. It was a feeling, something we looked forward to every year."
Diane's voice, quiet but firm, cut through the cold air. "Then everything changed."
Lydia felt a lump form in her throat. She had known, of course, about their loss, about the pain they carried. But this was the first time they were speaking about it so openly.
Dalian's fingers curled into fists. "Uncle Lucas… took everything from us. Our home. Our family. And now, every Christmas, instead of joy, we just feel… lost."
Lydia's chest tightened. She had always known they avoided talking about their past, but hearing it now, raw and unfiltered, made her heart ache for them.
She reached out, gently taking Dalian's cold fingers in her own. "I'm so sorry."
Diane exhaled softly, her posture stiff. "We don't hate Christmas. We just… don't know how to celebrate it anymore."
Lydia nodded slowly. "I get it. I really do." She squeezed Dalian's hand, then turned to Diane. "But you know what? You don't have to force yourselves to celebrate like before. Just being together, even in silence, is enough."
Dalian looked down at their joined hands, her eyes glistening. "You really think so?"
Lydia smiled gently. "I know so."
The air was still heavy with sorrow, but Lydia could feel the tiniest shift—a small, flickering light in the darkness of their grief. And maybe, just maybe, this Christmas wouldn't feel so empty after all.