Christmas Truth - Lior's Eyes Chapter 10
Christmas Truth -
Lior's Eyes Chapter 10
Lior walked the streets in the pale Christmas morning air, no one stirring, no cars rushing, just quiet. Snow crunched softly under his boots, the only sound in the whole city, or so it seemed.
He drifted toward the Exchange, drawn by the faint glow in its window, and found Kelly already there, sitting alone at one of the small tables with a mug of coffee gone cold in front of him. The bell above the door chimed; Kelly looked up, nodded once in a quiet acknowledgement, and pushed the second mug he’d poured across the table.
Lior took it, wrapped his hands around the warmth, and sat.
“I thought it would be different this year,” Lior said, voice low, almost surprised to hear it out loud. “That somehow, with my knots gone, Christmas magic would visit me. But the only difference is it’s quieter. Last night children cried, tears still had to be collected. The alleys still have people in the doorways. It’s not different. And I feel the loss of a family I never really had even more.”
Kelly listened without interrupting, his eyes tired and distant. Outside, across the empty square, families in bright scarves and coats streamed into the old stone church, laughter and greetings drifting on the cold air each time the doors opened.
Kelly watched them, something raw flickering across his face.
“Surviving,” Lior added quietly. “That’s what we’re calling it now, isn’t it?”
Kelly exhaled slowly. “Aye. Some years that’s all the magic there is.”
He rubbed a hand over his jaw, the rasp loud in the stillness.
“But it is different this year, Lior. You’re saying it out loud. That’s new.”
Lior looked at him. “I’ve never come in here on Christmas morning before. Not once.”
Kelly gave a faint, weary smile. “Exactly. And yet here you are.”
They sat in silence for a while. Kelly reached into his coat pocket and brought out two slightly stale cinnamon buns wrapped in a paper napkin, something he’d picked up yesterday and forgotten to eat. He slid one across to Lior.
“Best I’ve got for Christmas breakfast.”
Lior took it. The icing had gone tacky and the pastry was just beginning to harden, but it was sweet and warm enough. They ate slowly, the quiet between them not heavy, just honest.
After a time, Lior asked, voice barely above a whisper, “Do you ever wonder if there’s another version of us somewhere? One that got it right, kids running downstairs, tree lights, someone warm beside them?”
Kelly nodded. “Every year. But wondering too long just makes this one feel smaller.”
He glanced again at the church, now nearly full, the doors closing at last. The organ began—soft, muffled strains of “Silent Night” seeping through the stone.
His voice dropped. “Asha came by last night. After closing. Said she just needed a place to sit out of the cold. But then she started on about the old bloodline, the silence we’ve all kept for generations. The promises made, the things buried. Called it cowardice. Said it’s killing what’s left of us.”
He paused, eyes fixed on the glowing windows across the square. A faint halo of candlelight breathed against the glass.
“No one’s ever said it to my face before. First time. Hit hard.”
Lior waited. A shred of cinnamon flaked onto the table between them, and he brushed it away with his thumb.
Kelly shook his head slightly. “She’s not wrong. But knowing that doesn’t make it easier to carry.”
He looked back at Lior.
“I keep watching them go in there,” he said, nodding toward the church. “Whole families. Singing about peace and goodwill. And I wonder what it feels like to walk into a place like that without carrying oaths older than any of us.”
A small, tired breath.
“But maybe the real work isn’t pretending the dark isn’t there. Maybe it’s just refusing to let it speak last.”
Lior looked down at his half-eaten bun, then out at the snow beginning to fall again, soft, steady flakes drifting past the window like quiet forgiveness.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “Maybe.”
Neither man moved to leave. The coffee cooled. The carol rose and fell across the square. And in the small, warm pocket of the empty Exchange, two men who had expected nothing from the day sat together in the hush, not healed, not whole—but no longer entirely alone with what they carried.
It was a start.
Author's/Artist's Note: As a disabled survivor using assistive technology, which changes day by day pending health and that day's needs- (#zebralife), I pour these chapters from my own experiences and the people I've met along the path of life. Assistive tech helps me myriad of ways present my message. If Lior's eyes reflect your shadows, reach out—resources like RAINN or Support for Men at 1in6.org are lifelines. What's next? Comments welcome, always.
Comments