The wind didn’t just blow in Oakhaven; it bit. It was Christmas Eve, but there were no glowing windows or sounds of caroling. The town was under the rule of Silas Vane, a man whose heart was rumored to be carved from the very granite of the mountain he lived upon.
It was a stone-cold Christmas, but as he dropped the first bundle of wood at a neighbor's door, Silas felt the first stirrings of a thaw. A Stone Cold Christmas
"They are alive," the Spirit countered. "They crack, they bleed, and they heal. You, Silas, are merely preserved." The wind didn’t just blow in Oakhaven; it bit
Around midnight, a rhythmic thud-thud-thud echoed through the halls. It wasn't a knock; it sounded like boulders grinding together. Silas grabbed a candle and headed to the foyer. Standing there was a figure draped in heavy, frost-covered grey. Its face was a mask of jagged slate. It was a stone-cold Christmas, but as he
The Spirit led him to the town square, where a statue of the town’s founder stood. Silas realized the statue looked more human than he felt. He reached out to touch the cold bronze, and for the first time in decades, he felt a spark of shame. It was a heat so intense it felt like his chest was cracking open.
"Silas," the creature rumbled, its voice like a rockslide. "I am the Spirit of the Stone. You have spent years hardening your heart to protect it from pain. Tonight, we see what happens when a heart becomes a tomb."
Silas sat in his manor, the hearth cold. He didn’t believe in wasting wood on warmth he didn't think he deserved. To Silas, Christmas was a ledger—a day where people spent money they didn't have to buy feelings that didn't last.