[hider=Christmas Never Dies]It was the day before Christmas and night was the house. No lights were to be seen, not even a tree. Where stockings should hang there was merely the ghost of years past. In the absence of merriment, silence reigned; this grieving kingdom stretched its fingers far and wide, saddening every last corner of this lonely little home.

Drowned not was little Sarah who peeked her cautious head around the corner. She peered into the void of her father’s study, spotting him where he always was. Barely uttering a word to her or anyone else, he worked away at his desk and escaped all things living in a bubble of laborious immersion. He muttered a curse and cast aside a crumpled paper, adding it to the growing field of parchment corpses surrounding his seat.

Sarah steadily moved forward, inching along anxiously with her partially torn teddy bear held tightly in her tiny hands. Once she was close enough, Sarah mustered the courage to speak but it came out as barely a whisper. She tried again, and then once more until she got it right. “Father,” she said.

“Not now,” her father retorted, not even turning his head. 

“But it’s—“

Her father wheeled around, and Sarah stepped back like a shrinking dog expecting to be punished. “What is so important that you have to interrupt me while I’m working? I told you I had to work tonight, and I told you never to come in here. Now, out with it!”

Little Sarah wanted to cry, but she bit back her tears as she remembered better days where the house was lit, better days where her father did not speak with such awful pain. “It’s Christmas Eve,” she pointed out, “I just wanted to know if we were going to get a tree, or if we were going to put up some lights.” Her voice was weak, lingering on a thin string of wavering hope. “We always put up lights,” Sarah added as a final thought.

“Not this year,” he said, stamping out the vestiges of her dreams, “now, please, I really must be working.”

She understood, and withdrew, but not before picking up a turned down picture frame that lay on the floor. Sarah glanced at the frame, and then at her father in the chance that something inspired might fall upon her tongue. When nothing came she left him alone on her trail of defeat, but little Sarah would not abandon hope. She stared at the frame and made a forceful vow.

Christmas would not end here, nor could it ever die, for Christmas was the spirit of joy, and such a spirit is eternal. At night, when her father was finally asleep, Sarah set her hands to work, doing her very best to set things right. The hours were long and her paths were treacherous, every step carefully made for on this night her father must not awaken or else all her efforts would be for naught.

Sarah went to bed when she was finished, hugging tight both frame and bear, nurturing and protecting that frail little spirit like it were a candle flame caught in the wind.

Morning dawned and Sarah shot up, woken by the shout of her name. Nervously, she left her room and ventured on out to find her father looking none too happy as he stood by the evidence of the previous night’s efforts. “Explain this.” He said, firmly, with an air of impatience.

She scanned the room, from the fireplace where she hung three regular old socks, to the corner where she placed a dead plant but strung makeshift paper ornaments to its brittle and breaking leaves. Everywhere there was red and green paper, and some lights she managed to find in the hidden box she always opened for this time of year. “It’s Christmas,” Sarah said meekly. She just wanted him to be happy, but his expression shared none of her joy. She tried to say that she did this for him, but he interrupted her.

“I want it all cleaned up. This instant.”

“Wait,” Sarah protested, and moved back to her room.

“No, I will not wait. You made a mess, and you’re going to clean it up! Get back here, Sarah!” He chased after her, only to be greeted by his daughter holding a closed box up to him. It was simple cardboard, no wrappings, but there was a bow on top.

“Here,” she said, “for you.”

He sighed in exasperation, but accepted, relenting for a moment to take the box, and open it. For a while, there was silence. No motion. No comments. It was just him, looking into the box, and Sarah watching. Finally, he reached in, and lifted out the picture frame with a piece of paper attached. He looked over the picture, seeing himself in a hideous Santa sweater, Sarah with a glowing Rudolph nose, and then there was a beautiful woman, his wife, Sarah’s mother, smiling brightly with a pair of deer antlers adorning her head. They were together. Happy. The absence of that smile had never been more keenly felt.

It took another few seconds before he grabbed the paper and read what Sarah scrawled down.

So long as I have you, I will always have Christmas. – Love Sarah 

Sarah watched the anger melt away off of her father’s face. She was stunned to see him steadily break out into tears, and couldn’t help but flinch as he came down to her and swept her up into his arms. “Oh Sarah,” he cried, “I’m so sorry!”

He went on like that for a long time, crying, and apologizing, crying, and apologizing again. She found herself giggling when he kissed her cheek repeatedly, sharing in this sudden joy linking them together.

“You darling girl, you magnificent, wondrous girl!” He lifted her high, spun her around, and hugged her all over again like it was the first time he had seen her in ages. 

All was right again in little Sarah’s world. For, so long as she had him, and he had her, Christmas would never die.[/hider]