Day Ten: The Present (Part Two)

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No one came out. The smell of toast and bacon wafted around me as I stood at the door, my hand on the handle still. No one came out.

The kettle whistled on the stove; a shrill, annoying discordant sound as I stood quietly, waiting, expectant. No one came out.

I looked beyond the door, and saw the trappings of my past; a childs drum, battered with enthusiasm and age. A ball of wrapping paper, green as holly leaves, with a twist of blood red ribbon still scrunched inside. A sleigh, the runners twisted and splintered from taking too much weight, unable to run free, unable to fly.

And a withered branch of mistletoe, dry, desiccated.

I looked, and I waited, and finally I sighed. There was no longer anything for me there.

The kettle was silenced, the food cold, my heart calm. I took the key, and locked the door again. I poured a cup of tea, and watched the clouds skitter across the sky, driven by the wind. Driven? Or flying? Perhaps I should follow them to find out.

I went for a walk on Christmas Day. At some point, I lost a key.