Emil Shepherd I The Scrooge

The churchyard lay in a hush broken only by the sigh of bare oak branches and the crunch of Emil’s boots along the gravel path. The air was sharp and metallic, carrying the damp taste of moss and the promise of winter. He stopped before a modest headstone, the granite cool and unyielding beneath his gloved fingers.

MARIA SHEPHERD “A Light Lost Too Soon”

Eight years had passed since his mother’s death. Eight years of dimmer Christmas seasons, of a house grown quieter, of his father’s smiles turning careful and rare. The grief had not vanished; it had simply hollowed out a permanent space within him. He had learned to master it. He would not weep—tears were indulgent, inefficient. He would stand, acknowledge the loss, and continue forward. Practicality must prevail. The mantra rose instinctively, a shield against memory: pine needles crushed underfoot, the crackle of firelight, a frail but warm hand curled around his own.

He allowed himself five minutes.

Then, with a curt straightening of his spine, Emil turned and left the grave behind.

He walked briskly through the streets, intent on outrunning the weight of the visit by focusing on the certainty of his impending studies. There were books to collect from Mr. Douglas’s second-hand shop—texts on double-entry bookkeeping, precise and dependable things.

The shop sat quietly on a corner three blocks from his home. He entered, retrieved the heavy ledger and finance volumes, paid the modest sum, and departed at once, eager to retreat to the ordered sanctuary of his room.

Outside, as he adjusted the severe lines of his scarf, he nearly collided with a young woman standing just beyond the threshold. She had paused there, her attention fixed on the small, crooked wreath hung on the door—pine branches bound with a faded velvet ribbon.

Emil offered a stiff apology, his voice sharper than intended, the residue of the grave still clinging to him.

She turned, unhurried, her expression open and gentle. There was something in her eyes that unsettled him—an unguarded warmth, tinged with a quiet melancholy he recognized too well. She glanced back at the wreath, as though lingering over its simplicity.

The scent of pine reached him then, sudden and invasive. It struck too close to memory. He dismissed it immediately, noting the wreath’s faded state, its impracticality, its premature appearance. The words came clipped and cold, a reflexive defense.

She did not bristle. Instead, she seemed faintly amused, studying him with an ease that suggested she found his severity more curious than offensive. Her gaze drifted briefly to the books in his arms, then back to his face, as if weighing him.

She held a book of her own—worn, well-loved. A children’s volume.

The sight of it tightened something in his chest.

Fairy tales. Another relic of a past he had sealed away. He reacted at once, dismissing the notion of such reading as inefficient, frivolous—unsuited to adulthood. He spoke of structure, of purpose, of suffering rendered meaningful only when contained and inevitable.

She listened without interruption, her expression softening rather than hardening. The book remained cradled carefully in her hands, as though it mattered.

When she mentioned comfort—when the idea of familiarity surfaced, of a mother’s voice reading aloud—something in Emil fractured. The word felt almost cruel so soon after the grave. He doubled down, insisting sentimentality was a luxury, an expense best avoided. He spoke of balance sheets and certainty, of tangible value and the uselessness of things that could not be measured.

Still, she did not look away.

Her attention rested on him with an unsettling gentleness, as though she could sense the chill still clinging to his coat, the discipline barely holding his grief in check. There was no accusation in her gaze—only curiosity, and something like concern.

The sensation was intolerable.

Emil stiffened, speaking of practicality, of his father’s foolish crafts and wasted effort, of how feelings eroded efficiency. He heard the sharpness in his own voice and did nothing to soften it. He was not truly arguing with her. He was arguing with memory, with loss, with the fragile things he refused to carry.

Abruptly, he excused himself.

He offered a brief, formal nod and stepped away, the books held tightly against his chest. He did not look back as he walked down the street, though the faint scent of pine lingered longer than he expected, trailing after him like a question he was unwilling—yet not entirely able—to ignore.