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The swirling cascade of snow swept along the busy avenue, as the piercingly cold wind blew in. Another storm was on the forecast, and it seemed the whole city had been spurred to get their last minute gift shopping done before everything was buried in white.

Slush, dirtied brown by the passage of people and vehicles, flowed with that familiar creeping slowness through the gutters. The refuse of the careless shoppers, receipts and wrapping lodged here and there in the snow, or kicked along the street by the trudging feet of those resigned to keep moving, only to be swept further along by the remorseless wet wind.

Christmas had never been his favorite time of year. Between that awful music that they played every single year since before he was born, and started earlier and earlier each “shopping season”, a lovely term that really captured the essence of what remained of the now soulless and purely secular holiday, and the wonderful attitudes of people who honestly believed they, beyond all others, deserved special consideration, and how dare he (and it was always his fault) not have the perfect gift for little so-and-so.

Alright. Perhaps he had undersold that last thought. He loathed Christmas. Even as a boy, he had no good memories of it. The same sense of tedium over the ritual. The same sense of boredom as everyone around him seemed to enjoy all the things he really hated most about it.

Work had dragged on for entirely too long. A six hour floor shift turning to eight. Ten. Then apologies. When he finally all but limped his way through the parking lot, it was to sit and groan in a frigid old beater with enough miles on it to make him really wonder just how far away from all of it a road trip that long would get him.

The engine struggled to crank over, three attempts filling him with a kind of growing dread before the battery, struggling against the cold, managed to do the job. He shivered in the cold, waiting for the engine to warm up. His hands gripped the steering wheel, clenched tight against his own growing fatigue.

Finally, after what felt as an eternity, he pulled out of the parking lot, and wound his way down the back roads, the blown out speaker in the passenger side door struggling to play old country music. The familiar voice singing about the lonesome whistle of a distant train.

He sighed, as he tried to see anything past his hood. The storm had moved in fast, and heavy. Snow fell in huge flakes, and swirled in the wind around him. Even without doing so on half-bald tires on an engine held together with duct tape and a prayer, the idea of driving in it was insane. But honestly, he had resigned himself to the reality of it so long ago that it just felt familiar.

Mostly it was just annoying. The whole thing was just tiring.

When he managed to pull into the parking lot in front of the cheap apartments, he couldn’t tell whether he was in his spot. Close enough, he supposed, as he killed the engine, and limped up to the door. The cold and forced stillness in the car hadn’t done his aching joints any favors, and by the time he made it to the third floor, he was ready to call it quits.

The familiar voices from across the hall were yelling again. His neighbors always argued. But it had been getting worse lately. He’d have been a fool to get involved though. The man outweighed him by a few hundred pounds. Frankly, so did the woman. He’d long since gotten used to the sound of their gigantic ursine feet stomping around on the floor. No way was he going to complain, compared to them a human like him was frail. And they were always angry. It didn't take a genius to figure out how well that fight would go. He sighed to himself over the sound of the doors inside their apartment slamming. It seemed he was just about the only neighbor left on that floor, everyone else had moved on in the past few months.

He had to shoulder his door open, the frame had swollen after some water leak or another, and he didn’t have the time or the care to bother trying to deal with it. Closing the door was equally a chore, and that night after a few minutes of trying, he just gave up on it. He grumbled to himself and sat heavily on the worn out old sofa that doubled as his bed.

“Merry fucking Christmas. God bless us, one and all.” He muttered, sardonically, as he turned on the tv, a decrepit old thing that he had salvaged out of the trash, complete with cracked screen and warped colors.

The local news fixated on “the storm of the century”, and he laughed, kicking off his shoes and stretching out on the sofa.

“At least I'm off tomorrow…” He sighed, as his eyes slid shut to the sounds of the news broadcast sharing the usual softball holiday stories, barely drowning out the shouting match from across the hall.

A curious sound, like bells awoke him. He stared for a moment at the television, one of the old animated Christmas movies played to an empty house.

He stared for a long time, his half-awake brain hung up on it, a feeling of heartache and deep nostalgia washing over him.

For just a moment, his eyes felt hot, and the familiar pressure in his cheeks lingered. But fight it as hard as he could, he couldn't stop the tears, the sense of mourning. This trite little Christmas movie, the awful voices, the ham-handed moral of the story… the way everything worked out.

For just a moment, he remembered all too clearly what it was like to be so young, and to have so much faith that he believed things really did work out.

Before life spent a quarter of a century beating that faith out of him.

It was far too early for that, and he still smelled like work. With a ragged sigh, he stood up, counting the blisters on his feet with every painful step. Crossing to the bathroom, he hit the lights, and started the tap. The calcified shower head spat cold mist, and little else. The water was freezing, but he had already resigned himself to it.

At least his chattering teeth would stop his misty eyes.

With a tightly clenched jaw, he fought past the effects of the cold, frantically scrubbing himself down, and bitterly cussing at it all the while. The shower couldn't have ended soon enough, and as he stepped out, he heard the sound of jingling bells, again.

A grumbling sigh escaped him as he began drying himself off with a hand towel, flippantly swinging it over the shower curtain rod before walking across his dimly lit apartment in search of clothes.

Everything in his house was worn down, most of it well before he owned it. His dresser drawers stuck, a bent track needing just the right tug to let the battered roller move past.

Again, that sound, but it clearly wasn't the television. Puzzled, he turned, looking around.

What he saw made him feel as if both his heart, and time had stopped.

In the corner of his room, illuminated in hues of red and blue by a little plastic and fiber optic Christmas tree, his only holiday decor, stood a woman. Her light brown fur and white markings catching the colorful little lights of the obliviously happy christmas tree. She glanced down at a sack set haphazardly on his sofa, a few boxes strewn about. She had obviously been rummaging through it for something when he saw her.

For a moment they both shared shock at seeing one another. But their responses were vastly different. For her part, almost panic, realizing the way out was past him. For his part, resignation, as he assumed she was looking to add to her haul.

“Look around you. Does it look like I have anything worth stealing?” He asked, with a bitter laugh. “Even my coffee is cheap, instant crap. Come on… if you're gonna rob someone, couldn't you at least pick someone who has something to celebrate?”

She stared, a moment of silence, confusion, and quiet wonder. “You're Joe Carter, right?” She asked, pulling a book out of the bag, and flipping through it. “This is apartment three F? One eleven Adams Street?”

“What, did you check my mail on the way up? What is this?” He asked, bewildered by the exchange. “Is this some kind of joke? Am I on some lousy TV show? Tell your camera guy to stop filming. I'm not interested.”

“Joe… this isn't a show, or a game. Though clearly there's been some kind of mistake.” The reindeer woman replied, stepping around the sofa. “I'm Holly, and I'm supposed to be delivering a present to you. But… the list doesn't say what, and there's nothing extra in the bag.”

“Nice try, but I gave up drinking, years ago. Look, it's been a long Christmas. It's my only day off since November. Calling the cops would just be a hassle, if they even bothered to show up.” He replied, gesturing to the door. “So no offense, Holly. But since I'm not interested in being a made for TV sucker, and don't have anything worth taking. So whichever it is you came here for, why don't you cut your losses, and go have a merry little Christmas somewhere else?”

“Joe…” She replied, hesitantly. “Has Christmas truly been this bitter for you?” She asked, her naturally husky voice thick with sorrow.

“No offense, but do I look like I want to talk about the ghost of Christmas past? Look at me, lady! I work a shit job selling expensive bullshit to self entitled people who think ‘need’ is a word to describe a phone, or video game. I live in an icebox of an apartment and scrounge furniture and food both out of the crap other people don't want. My car is a rusted out nightmare that is as old as I am, and the closest thing to holiday cheer I ever feel is relief when it's over!” He said, with far more frustration and anger than he had intended. She shrank back, and for a moment he felt ashamed at his outburst. Sighing, and composing himself, he met her eyes, in the dim light of an infomercial. “There was never any magic in this day. If there was, it was never meant for me. So take your holiday special somewhere else. Leave this footage out of it. Merry goddamn Christmas.” He said, as he sat down on the worn old sofa, the broken frame sagging beneath him.

For a moment, she stared, in silence. Then she handed him a slender envelope. “I'll go, because I know I can't convince you there really is something to celebrate. But I want you to think very carefully. Write down the one thing you want most in the world. The one thing that matters most to you on the card inside there.”

She paused, and leaned in, kissing the top of his head. “Merry Christmas, Joe… please try to smile today. I'm sorry for intruding.”

When she finally left, he took the time to shoulder the door shut behind her, the force of his motion splintered the warped frame a little more.

“The one thing I really want…” He said aloud, as he sat back on the sofa. “Wouldn't it be nice if it were that simple?”

The morning found him groggily swinging a hand toward the arm of the couch, fumbling for his phone to check his alarm before the date registered in his sleep fogged brain. Twelve twenty-five. Christmas.

He more slid than stood as he made his way off the sofa, fatigue leaving him halfway to being a hunchback as he shuffled to the bathroom. With a bitter laugh, he realized too late that the pipes had frozen. “So much for coffee.” He mused, tearing open a wet napkin from the mall food court to clean his hands as he flushed. The last of the water in the reservoir gone until either he fetched some, or the pipes thawed.

As he sat back on the sofa and tuned in the local channels, he felt something poking against his back. Reaching behind his back, he pulled out the offending item. A bright red envelope with a Christmas card inside.

In a far too cheerful font, it read; “For a special boy on a magic day, straight from Saint Nick's sleigh! Your fondest wish, your heart's desire is the order of the day!”

Below that bright, flowing cursive font, an empty line awaited.

“The one thing I want most in the world…” He sighed, as he stared at the card.

“You just wouldn't get it, Holly.” He said with a sigh, as he dropped the card beside him. “There's nothing you could give me that is going to fix how empty this all is.”

“I don't want stuff. I just don't want to be here anymore. I just don't want to wake up every day and feel like it's meaningless. That's all. That's all I want! Can you give me that?”

He laughed, bitterly as he penned those exact words on the card, five minutes later. At least he'd get some use out of it, he realized, as he tucked it into the envelope and slid it under the tree. They'd find it. Maybe before spring, even.

He knew with a strangely satisfying certainty that he wouldn't be there anymore. Not in any way that mattered. He realized the irony as he tied a knot in his belt, and hooked it over the bathroom door, shutting it behind him. In a way, he was going to get exactly what he wished for.

“Merry Christmas, Holly. Good luck with your TV show, or whatever the hell that was.”