Lost Christmas…9

The nights are cold. There is never enough warmth from the others. There are times when I think that they must not notice me. I walk so close to the walls that I have become accustomed to mixing with shadows. The kiosk man sees me.

The boy came on the second night of the falling. He moved in with a swathe of the frightened; a grey mass that inched along the walls and dared their way forward. He was alone. They were all alone.

I usually smile. It’s what I do. A smile can light up the thickest darkness, someone once said. I find that a smile is what keeps the loss at bay. It is a shrug of the shoulders, something that suggests moving on and getting past the worst of it. And, at the moment, that’s usually when the worst of it starts. No matter how far down…