December already. Evelyn sat at her impeccable desk in her neat library in her well-cared for home. She was, she thought, just going through the motions of life at this point. Even the prospect of the upcoming holidays, that she once loved, made her feel even more lonely.

Harold was gone, four years now. They had never had children – not that she hadn’t wanted them, she did. They just didn’t take. She’d be forced into retirement after nearly forty years of teaching. Her beloved cat, Tennyson, had passed two years ago. Even her friends, those that were still alive, were distantly busy. She anticipated a stack of cards with updates and photos, but that would be all. The stack of her own holiday cards waiting for her to sign and send sat close by.

Evelyn reached for the box of cards, hesitated, then let her hand fall away. The floor could wait, too. It was getting harder and harder for her to keep her home tidy. She should pull her Christmas decorations out. She sighed wearily at the thought, and couldn’t muster the will to even contemplate it.

She thought about calling Doris to ask her to lunch, but didn’t want to bother her. Doris’ grandchildren were in town. Sally was in Florida helping her youngest daughter care for her newborn – a son, I think. So she sat, listening to the clock’s hollow ticking in a house that had once been full of love.

Finally, she dressed and went to church. There was a little thrift store just next door. With nothing waiting at home, Evelyn stopped in.  In a small box of keepsakes, she stumbled on a small, silver locket with swirls of snowflakes decorating the outside. It was cold to the touch, but a feeling of familiarity rushed through her though she had never seen the locket before.

That night she sat in front of the quiet television with her meal and a book, as was her normal routine. But instead of picking up her book, she picked up the locket. She turned it over and over, carefully inspecting it. The small table lamp flickered and shadows lazily settled into the corners of the room.

Evelyn carefully worked a fingernail into the seam and opened it. Suddenly, before her was a scene of a Christmas Eve that she did not remember. The house was decorated and filled with people, laughter, and the scent of mulled wine. The image in her mind flickered like candlelight, but she could feel it. Harold, younger, healthier than he had been for years, sat by the fire with a young boy on his lap and smiling.

She snapped the locket shut.

That night Evelyn took down her husband’s bottle of good whiskey and drank a healthy shot, its warmth racing through her, before retiring to her cold, empty bedroom. She put the locket in her jewelry box and vowed to never open it again.

A week later, she couldn’t help herself and opened the locket again. The scene returned, but this time, Harold turned to her and smiled. The young boy called out, “Grandma!” From the kitchen she heard a young woman say, “Mom, can you help me with the gravy? Mine is never as good as yours.”

She closed the locket again, tears spilling from her eyes, her breath leaving her in rapid gasps.

A week later the vision expanded again. She watched Harold lift the small boy to the top of the tree to place the sparkling star there. A young woman with her chin and Harold’s eyes walked by her smiling. She reached down into a bassinet to pick up a small pink bundle that had started to fuss. “Do you want to hold her, Mom?”

Evelyn tried to leave the locket alone. But the visions were too bittersweet to ignore.

She threw the locket outside one evening, certain she was done with it. In the morning, it rested on her nightstand, as if it had never left. Still cold.

By the 21^st, the vision has her sitting at a table with Harold, the young woman Evelyn had learned was named Agatha and her husband. There was also a young man with Harold’s black hair and her blue eyes who brought his wife and two children. The young girl, a year younger than Agatha’s boy, had asked Evelyn to help her earlier. “Gramma, can you help me wrap a present for Mommy?”

The locket was still cold to the touch.

Evelyn knew she was slower than before, could feel the tiredness seeping into her bones. It was harder to stay warm in the cold snow-filled nights. In that damp chill of night she could feel her breath hitch.

On Christmas Eve, Evelyn lit a candle. It was the one tradition she would not ignore, a light must shine on in the darkness. She sat, gazing at the snow softly falling through the large windows. A shadow lingered at the edge of her vision—watching, waiting, patient.

“It’s time, I suppose,” she said with a weary rasp.

There was no answer.

She reached for the locket, expecting the familiar icy bite—but it wasn’t cold anymore. It pulsed with warmth, seeping into her palm, as if it had been waiting for her to be ready. Evelyn inhaled sharply. With a practiced move, she flipped the locket open. A wave of warmth enveloped her—firelight dancing, Harold’s laughter, the twinkle of lights. The scent of cinnamon and pine. The feel of small arms wrapping around her waist.

For the first time in a very long time, Evelyn smiled. “Hello, Harold,” she said.

The locket, still open, slipped from her fingers.

The candle flickered. The clock ticked on. The house exhaled, settling into silence.

A shadow reached from the early morning darkness, lifting the locket with careful reverence. A thumb brushed away the last trace of frost.

“Safe travels, Evelyn.”