493 Word Flash Fiction
A solitary figure trudged along the snowy sidewalk. There was no evidence of his passing, no shadow cast, no footprints in the snow. Occasionally, he paused at a window, peering into the warm glow and twinkling lights. His cold breath barely frosted the glass as he wondered, “How long has it been since I last felt the joy of Christmas?”
He was Death, not a man who received invitations to parties. His presence brought sorrow to every house he visited.
At the last door, he stopped. Inside, music and laughter rose and fell as lights on the tree danced merrily. People mingled and sipped from crystal glasses, unaware of his presence.
He entered the house and glided unseen up to the second floor. The last door on the left was his destination, but his attention was caught by two small blue eyes. She was peeking at him from under a pink, lacy duvet. A soft voice whispered, “Nana’s not feeling well. We’re ‘upposed to let her sleep.”
She could see him.
Intrigued, he slipped into the room. He sat awkwardly on the edge of the bed and cleared his throat. “Hello there, little one. Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” His voice was raspy from disuse.
“You sound funny,” she giggled, poking her head from the blankets.
“Mommy and Daddy are ‘upposed to tuck me in, but I think they forgot.”
He smiled, the first in many lifetimes. “Well, I could tuck you in, if you’d like.”
“Will you tell me a story, too? Mommy and Daddy always tell me one for bed.”
“I don’t know many stories. Perhaps you could tell me one instead.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Really? You want me to tell you a story? Nana does that, too!” She sat up, tucking the blankets around her knees. “How about one of Nana’s stories?”
“I think that sounds lovely.”
“Once upon a time… that’s how Nana starts.” She cleared her throat in a tiny imitation of an older voice and giggled. “Once upon a time, there was a shy little girl who lived in a little house by the woods. One Christmas, she wished on the Christmas star. She said, ‘Dearest Christmas star, please grant me this wish. It is lonely in this house by the woods, and I would be ever so happy to have a friend.’
He watched her spin the tale and saw himself reflected in those words. Time had weighed heavily on him, but as he listened to her bright voice weave the story, he felt a brief reprieve from the darkness. He felt joy.
Finally, with a yawn, she sank back into her pillows. “That’s where Nana always stops.”
“That was a wonderful story,” he said, tucking her blankets around her slight form. At the door, he paused. “You’re very lucky to have someone who tells you stories. I’m sure she loves you very much.”
He turned and crossed the hall, Nana’s open door now inviting him in.
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