Christmas | A Stone Cold

The Spirit led him to the town square, where a statue of the town’s founder stood. Silas realized the statue looked more human than he felt. He reached out to touch the cold bronze, and for the first time in decades, he felt a spark of shame. It was a heat so intense it felt like his chest was cracking open.

"They are alive," the Spirit countered. "They crack, they bleed, and they heal. You, Silas, are merely preserved." A Stone Cold Christmas

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. The Spirit led him to the town square,

"Silas," the creature rumbled, its voice like a rockslide. "I am the Spirit of the Stone. You have spent years hardening your heart to protect it from pain. Tonight, we see what happens when a heart becomes a tomb." It was a heat so intense it felt

He woke up on his floor, the morning sun reflecting off the frost on his windows. He wasn't transformed into a saint overnight, but the "stone" had a fissure in it. Silas walked to his woodshed, loaded a sled with every log he had, and began the long trek down the mountain.