It was a stone-cold Christmas, but as he dropped the first bundle of wood at a neighbor's door, Silas felt the first stirrings of a thaw.
Around midnight, a rhythmic thud-thud-thud echoed through the halls. It wasn't a knock; it sounded like boulders grinding together. Silas grabbed a candle and headed to the foyer. Standing there was a figure draped in heavy, frost-covered grey. Its face was a mask of jagged slate. A Stone Cold Christmas
"They are alive," the Spirit countered. "They crack, they bleed, and they heal. You, Silas, are merely preserved." It was a stone-cold Christmas, but as he
Silas sat in his manor, the hearth cold. He didn’t believe in wasting wood on warmth he didn't think he deserved. To Silas, Christmas was a ledger—a day where people spent money they didn't have to buy feelings that didn't last. Silas grabbed a candle and headed to the foyer
