Gift

The snow laced the rooftops of the lethargic village outside. Eleanor had once loved the snow. Its freshness had excited her. She liked the newness – it had felt like a gift. But these days, she found little joy in anything. Her life had become one of quiet solitude since Brian had passed away. Christmas felt cruel now, her heart filled with memories and the pang of what once was, gone. They had never had any children—not for lack of trying. It just hadn’t happened the way they’d planned. So, there was no family to speak of and no visitors to soothe the dull ache of loneliness. Friends had once been there, but three years had passed, and they had drifted into the background, especially during this time of year. Busy with their own families and Christmas preparations, they gave her little thought. And she wasn’t one to ask.

Christmas Eve had always been their favorite day of the year. In the morning, they would visit her parents—buried side by side. One day, she would join them, alongside Brian. Afterwards, they’d walk through the village, hand in hand, admiring the colorful lights and elaborate shop window décor. They’d drink tea in The Parlour Room and talk like they were teenagers again. And in the evening, they would fit into each other on the sofa and watch old movies. The Slipper and the Rose had always been her favorite. She could no longer bring herself to watch it. The memory of his mock indignation, “Again?” was more than she could bear. They’d watched it every year for thirty years.

It was Christmas Eve again. And, again, she would visit the graves of her loved ones. A lily for each.

She bundled herself into her coat, wrapped her scarf around her neck, and set out into the snow.

Her feet crunched on the icy pavement. This time, she did not stop to admire the adorned shop windows. The colors had faded. Nor did she feel the snow lightly flitting onto her nose. She arrived at the cemetery with a heavy heart as the weight of loss continued to take root. As tradition held, she placed a lily gently on each of her parents’ headstones. “Merry Christmas,” she whispered, her breath visible in the air.

She made her way slowly to Brian’s grave. As she approached, holding a single lily, she noticed a small, shivering form lying next to the grave.

Eleanor proceeded carefully, not wanting to startle the animal. “Hello, little one,” she said quietly. The dog barely moved, too weak to respond but for a tiny shift of its tail; it just lay on the ground, motionless. She knelt down, stroking its unkempt fur. It responded to the kindness, nuzzling its head toward the warmth. Salvation.

Eleanor looked at the frail dog; its eyes were hollow and desperate. Broken. She couldn’t leave it there, alone and suffering. She made the decision quickly, carefully wrapping the dog in her scarf and cradling it in her arms.

“Let’s get you warm,” she murmured, as much to the dog as to herself.

With the dog still in her arms, she placed the lily on her late husband’s headstone. “Thank you,” she whispered, her heart comforted by the warmth of the dog nestled against her.

That night, as they sat together on the sofa, the dog, now named Gift, rested his head tentatively on Eleanor’s lap. For the first time since Brian’s passing, Eleanor felt alive. She had a purpose once again. She had been given a gift.

And Gift had finally found a home to call his own.