Days Before Christmas by Mark Hans

Author:Mark Hans
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Mark Hans
Published: 2025-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

December 12, 1990

The cold sharpened overnight.

Jason felt it the moment his feet touched the floor how it crept up through the boards, stiff and biting, settling into his bones as if it meant to stay. He dressed quietly, not wanting to wake anyone, and slipped outside while the sky was still undecided between night and morning.

Frost glazed the pavement.

Jason rubbed his hands together and walked faster.

His first job came sooner than expected. Outside a row of terraced houses, a man struggled to scrape ice from a windscreen, breath puffing angrily into the air.

“I can do that,” Jason said.

The man paused, then handed over the scraper without argument. Jason worked carefully, pushing the ice aside in clean arcs until the glass was clear again. His fingers burned from the cold by the time he finished.

“Good lad,” the man said, paying him before driving off.

Jason tucked the money away, flexing his hands until feeling returned.

By midmorning, the frost had softened into damp, leaving the streets slick and treacherous. Near the canal, a café owner was dragging chairs inside, muttering about the weather. Jason took one end of the stack without being asked, carrying them in pairs until his arms protested.

The café smelled of coffee and warm bread. Jason didn’t linger.

The afternoon was relentless.

He shoveled slush away from doorways, wiped mud from shop windows, carried bags for shoppers who moved too fast to notice the strain in his shoulders. Once, he slipped on the pavement and went down hard, palms scraping against stone. He sat there for a moment, stunned, the world spinning slightly.

A woman reached out instinctively, then hesitated.

“I’m fine,” Jason said quickly, pushing himself up before she could decide to help.

He kept working.

Later, he found himself in a quiet side street where an elderly woman struggled to pull a bin back through her gate. Jason grabbed the handle and lifted, careful not to tip it.

“Oh, thank you,” she said, relief flooding her voice. She insisted on paying him and wrapped his hands briefly in hers, warm despite the cold.

The touch lingered longer than the money.

By dusk, Jason’s steps dragged. His breath came in shallow bursts, fogging the air in front of him. He considered going home early just this once but then spotted a small hardware shop with its door propped open, boxes stacked high.

“I can help,” Jason said, voice hoarse.

The shopkeeper looked him over. “You sure?”

Jason nodded.

They worked until the sky deepened into blue-black, stacking boxes, sorting screws, sweeping sawdust into careful piles. When they finished, the shopkeeper paid him fairly and handed him a pair of worn gloves.

“Better than nothing,” he said gruffly.

Jason slipped them on immediately. They were too big, fingers dangling uselessly, but they were warm.

At home, his mother noticed the gloves at once.

“Where did those come from?” she asked.

“Work,” Jason replied.

She didn’t ask anything else.

In his room, Jason poured the day’s earnings into the tin. The sound was heavy now steady, assured. He closed it gently, as if afraid to disturb what he had built.

As

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