Ivanna Scrooge loathed winters. She despised the stale scent of snow-laden air and the way dampness clung to her clothes, a reminder of the nights she had tried to forget. Winter’s bite unveiled its unrelenting fangs into her wallet with increasing heating bills and locked her in neverending traffic. It sank into her bones, haunting memories that she wished could remain buried.
She couldn’t think about that night—her last night in that house. But the more she forced herself not to, the more those memories crept in, clawing at the edges of her mind. They tugged back each time she pushed them away, tempting her to remember. It was like trying not to think about an itch; focus only heightened her awareness, the memories getting more difficult to suppress each time they arose.
The memory surfaced without mercy, sharp and stabbing; Ivanna’s mother slumped beside her, blood seeping over her face, the metallic tang thick in the air. Her father looming, a baseball bat clenched in his grip, casting ominous shadows in the dim light. Ivanna didn’t need any ghost from the past to drag her back to that Christmas Eve of her seventeenth birthday—the memory was as fresh as the bruise that had bloomed afterward. Each garish Santa plastered on storefronts now taunted her with reminders of the cheerful drawing she had sketched just hours before that moment—a simple, innocent doodle lying somewhere near the blood-stained floor.
She tried to ignore the warmth that suddenly bloomed within her as she watched a father carefully knot a scarf around his daughter’s neck. But that warmth came with a sharp ache, a reminder of days when her own father had done the same, his hands gentle against the chill. Now, that tenderness felt like an echo of something soft long since hardened. She closed her eyes, willing the image away—she didn’t need more reminders that such warmth was never to be felt again.
Shuffling to the door, Ivanna scooped up the mail, each step weighted by another empty evening. The stack of overdue bills and forgotten newsletters was familiar, but today her fingers brushed against something else—a package. She frowned. She hadn’t ordered anything.
Later, inside her home, she settled into silence, a cold beer in hand and the pile of mail before her on the coffee table. Bills, flyers, that strange package—she eyed it warily, wondering if it was a mistake, something to break the hum of loneliness that filled the room.
Inside the package was a small camera and a note scrawled in familiar handwriting: “Love, all of us.” She unfolded the note slowly, her heartbeat quickening. She felt a stir of curiosity as she powered on the camera. On the tiny screen, Jeffrey appeared wearing a hideous plastic tiara, his tall frame hunched comically to fit the frame, a pair of shrunken fairy wings straining against his broad shoulders. He blew a kiss at the camera with exaggerated flair.
Just as she started to laugh, the rest of her friends jumped into view, shouting, “We miss you!” Their smiles and laughter filled the room, breaking through her solitude with warmth she hadn’t felt in ages. Ivanna stared at the screen, a mix of joy and ache bubbling up, her defences slipping just enough to let them in. But she pushed the camera aside, the laughter and warmth it brought too much for her to bear. Retreating to her bedroom, she wrapped herself in the quiet.
The next morning, the church greeted her with its usual stillness. Sunlight filtered through the stained glass, casting soft colours on the worn pews. The faint scent of old wood and melting candle wax filled the air. In the silence, the priest’s murmured words floated softly, blending into the space—a steady rhythm that steadied her nerves. She often came here to quiet her mind, letting the stillness envelop her in a way that little else could.
Ivanna blinked, her gaze trailing to the nameplate at the altar, suddenly realizing that the priest’s murmured prayer was for her. Her name sat engraved on the simple metal plate, cold and stark.
The priest caught her eye, his expression softening as he nodded in her direction. “We’re closed, I’m afraid. A funeral. The old woman… she had no one,” he said, his voice low, carrying a gentle, unspoken sadness.
Ivanna swallowed, the weight of his words settling over her. She glanced around the empty pews, imagining a life that faded without witnesses, without warmth or friends to grieve the loss. An ache stirred in her chest, but she forced herself to nod, turning back toward the door. The quiet had offered her solace before but now it felt like a warning, lingering in the echo of her footsteps.
The phrase echoed in Ivanna’s mind: The old woman had no one. Just like her. A chill ran through her, as she imagined her own life ending in such a silence, marked only by a few murmured words from a stranger.
Unless she let go. Unless she stopped clutching fragments of the past, allowing old wounds to keep her heart walled off from everyone. The weight of her decision hung in the air, fragile yet full of promise. For once, she wanted more than the memories that haunted her.
She couldn’t wait until it was too late.
Taking in a deep breath, stirrings of the unfamiliar arose in her chest—hope. She would discover a way out of her shadows and the past into the light of her future.
Photograph by: Jeffrey Jiang
Article by: Isita Ghanta