Through the Hearth

The snow fell thick and silent, blanketing the crooked streets of Greystone in its cold, indifferent shroud. Through the frost-limned panes of the workhouse window, I watched its descent, my breath fogging the glass as I leaned close. The scene outside was as stark and unyielding as the life I had come to know within these walls—grey upon white, bleak upon bleak. Yet there was talk that this night, Christmas Eve, would be different. Rumours had drifted amongst us, whispers of a feast, of music, of something resembling joy. I dared not trust such words. Hope, in this place, was a fragile thing, easily crushed beneath the weight of reality.

The bell clanged harshly, its discordant peal echoing through the dormitory, and we were summoned to the great hall. I rose from my cot, pulling my tattered shawl tight about my shoulders. The others shuffled past me in silence, their faces as worn and colourless as the linens that hung from their bunks. I fell in line, walking at the rear of the procession as was my place, a girl of fourteen winters who had long since learned the value of invisibility.

When we entered the hall, I could scarcely believe what I beheld. Garlands of holly and ivy draped the rafters, their dark green leaves seeming to defy the drabness of the stone walls. Candles flickered in iron sconces, their light dancing upon the faces of the benefactors seated at the long table at the far end of the room. And there, at the centre of it all, stood a Christmas tree, its boughs adorned with ribbons and tin baubles that glinted faintly in the firelight. Beneath the tree sat a figure garbed in crimson, his face painted in the likeness of Saint Nicholas, his smile fixed and cheerful.

Above the benefactors' table hung a banner, its letters stitched unevenly in bright thread: “Merry Christmas to You All!” The words struck a strange chord within me, for they seemed as much a mockery as they were a greeting. What had Christmas ever brought us, save for a sharper awareness of our lack?

The hall filled quickly, the inmates—men, women, and children alike—taking their seats on the wooden benches that lined the room. The benefactors, young ladies dressed in fine, modest gowns, moved among us with bowls of steaming broth and slices of bread. Their voices were soft and lilting as they murmured words of cheer, though their smiles seemed as thin and fleeting as the ribbons upon the tree.

One such benefactor paused before me, her cheeks ruddy with the warmth of the room. She placed a bowl before me, her gloved hand lingering on the edge of the table as she offered me a smile. I murmured my thanks, my fingers curling around the edge of the bowl, though it was not gratitude that rose to my lips but a question—one that had burned quietly in my heart since I first heard of Saint Nicholas.

“Miss,” I began, my voice trembling, “is it true that Saint Nicholas grants wishes on Christmas night?”

The young lady tilted her head, her smile faltering as though uncertain how to answer. “Why, it is said so,” she replied at last, her voice gentle. “To those whose hearts are deserving. Have you a wish, my dear?”

I nodded, clutching my shawl tighter about me. “I wish to see my mother again.”

Her expression softened, pity flickering in her eyes. She reached out to smooth a strand of hair from my face, her gloved fingers cool against my skin. “There, there,” she murmured. “Perhaps your wish shall come true in dreams.”

I lowered my gaze, her words doing little to soothe the ache that gnawed at my chest. Dreams were cruel things, as fleeting and insubstantial as the snowflakes that melted upon the workhouse steps. Yet as the evening wore on, my eyes were drawn again and again to the figure beneath the tree, its painted smile fixed in eternal cheer. If Saint Nicholas were truly listening, surely he would not ignore a wish made with such longing.

The night unfolded in strained revelry. We sang carols, our voices thin and uncertain, and a rare pudding was brought forth, its sweetness dulled by the bitterness that clung to our lives. Yet all the while, my thoughts lingered on my wish. As the bell tolled the hour and the inmates were ushered back to their dormitories, I lingered in the hall, my feet rooted to the spot as the others shuffled past.

Alone now, I approached the tree, the flickering light of the candles casting long shadows upon the floor. The figure of Saint Nicholas loomed before me, his painted eyes staring blankly into the distance.

“Why do you not answer me?” I whispered, my voice thick with unshed tears. “Why do you not grant my wish? What use are you, if you cannot bring her back?”

The figure remained still, its silence as heavy as the darkness that crept into the corners of the room. I turned away, my heart leaden with the weight of disappointment. Yet as I reached the threshold, a voice—low and rasping—called out my name.

“Clara.”

I froze, the sound slicing through me like a blade. Slowly, I turned back to the tree. The hall seemed darker now, the light of the candles dimmed to a faint, eerie glow. The figure of Saint Nicholas had risen, its painted smile impossibly wide, its eyes glinting with a strange, otherworldly light.

“Clara Hargrove,” it intoned, its voice reverberating as though carried on the wind. “Your wish has been heard.”

My heart thudded wildly as the figure stepped forward, its crimson cloak billowing as though stirred by an unseen breeze. It extended a hand—long and gnarled, like the branch of an ancient tree. “Come,” it beckoned. “Follow, and you shall see her again.”

A strange compulsion seized me, my fear mingling with a fierce longing. I stepped forward, my breath hitching as the figure led me to the great hearth at the end of the hall. The flames within flickered and roared, casting shifting shadows that seemed almost alive.

“Through the fire lies the path,” it whispered, its voice barely audible above the crackle of the flames. “Step through, and you shall find her.”

I hesitated, the heat of the fire licking at my face. My mother’s face swam before my eyes, her smile as I remembered it, her arms warm and comforting. Was this real? Or was it some cruel trick of my own mind? Before I could answer, the figure’s hand pressed against my back, urging me forward.

I closed my eyes and stepped into the flames—

—and awoke with a gasp.

The dormitory was silent, the faint light of dawn creeping through the frost-covered windows. My breath came in ragged gulps as I sat up, clutching my shawl tightly about me. A dream, I told myself. It was only a dream.

Yet as I looked down at my hands, I saw them streaked with soot. And at the foot of my cot lay a small object, glinting faintly in the pale light. With trembling fingers, I picked it up—a locket, its surface worn but intact. I opened it, and within was a portrait of my mother, her face serene and smiling, her eyes filled with a love that time could not dim.

Beneath the portrait was a single word, etched in delicate script: “Clara.”

Tears spilled down my cheeks as I clutched the locket to my chest. Though my mother’s arms would never hold me again, her love was a bond that even death could not sever. In that moment, I understood that my wish had been granted—not in the way I had imagined, but in a way that would sustain me for all the winters yet to come.