On Christmas Eve, Elias Mercer sat alone in a cold apartment with a plain dinner and an old pine tree he had dragged out of a basement storage room. He was used to holidays with no one beside him. Then, at 11:47, someone knocked. Standing in the hallway was Vivien Blackwood, the most powerful CEO in the city. The woman he had met during a disaster months before.
No gifts, no bodyguards, only a look of quiet desperation. She stared at him for a long time, then asked, "Elias, will you marry me?" He froze because on her finger was the ring he had once given back. Snow fell over the city the way money fell over its richest streets. Quietly, endlessly, and only in certain places.
Along the avenues, the glass towers glowed gold and silver, wrapped in lights that cost more than most people earned in a year. Carol stood outside the hotel on the corner, their breath rising in white clouds. Every window in the old brick building on Callaway Street was lit. Every window except one. On the fourth floor, behind a door with a dented brass number, Elias Mercer stood at a small stove and stirred a pot of soup, chicken, carrots, a little rice.
Nothing fancy. He did not need fancy. He was 39 years old, with broad shoulders, rough hands, and a face that looked like it had learned patience the hard way. Through the thin wall, he could hear the Dalton family next door singing along to an old Christmas record. Someone laughed.
A glass clinkedked. A child's voice from somewhere down the hall shouted that Santa was on the roof. Elias smiled faintly and turned down the heat. He set the table. One plate, one spoon, one glass of water.
In the corner of the room stood a crooked pine tree he had found in the building storage room. Abandoned by a tenant who had moved out in November. Half its needles were gone. IAS had straightened it with a length of copper wire and hung a single strand of lights across the branches. Only half of the bulbs worked.
He had not bothered to fix the rest. Tonight for once he did not feel like fixing anything. He sat down and ate slowly. He did not complain about the cold radiator or the cracked window or the stack of unpaid notices on the counter. Complaining had never warmed a room.
He had learned that a long time ago. His phone lay face up beside the plate. No messages, no missed calls. His son Nathan was 19 now, serving on a Navy ship somewhere in the Pacific where signals came rarely and holidays came late. Elias had already sent his message 3 days ago.
It said only, "Proud of you. Stay warm." There had been no reply yet. There probably would not be one tonight. When he finished eating, he rinsed the plate and dried it.
And then, without quite meaning to, he opened the drawer beneath the counter. Inside, beneath a roll of electrical tape and a box of old fuses, lay a thin gold band. His wedding ring. He held it up to the weak light, and turned it between his fingers. Clare had left 14 years ago.