"Once Upon a December Night" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
The December night pressed in around Michael Hargreaves as he trudged through the snow-laden city streets, his arms heavy with last-minute gifts. The streetlamps glowed like halos through the blowing flakes, lending the world a softened, otherworldly shimmer. He paused once to catch his breath—the air stung as it entered his lungs.
It's just the flu, he told himself, rubbing the dull ache at his temples. But something deeper whispered of exhaustion, of years quietly accumulating behind him.
He was on his way to meet his daughter, Lily, for their annual Christmas Eve coffee—a tradition born when she was six and insisted that he must drink hot chocolate with her to “celebrate properly.” She was grown now, her life its own constellation—friends, work, plans—but this ritual remained one of the still points of his year.
He found her already at their usual café, tucked into a corner booth near the frosted window. Lily looked up as he entered, a spark of warmth lighting her face.
“Dad… you look awful.” Concern overtook the warmth immediately. “Are you okay?”
“Just a chill,” Michael replied, forcing a smile. “The wind is something fierce tonight.”
As he sat, she reached out instinctively and squeezed his hand. Her touch felt colder than the air outside.
They talked—about her holiday plans, his unfinished Christmas cards, an elderly neighbor who had finally moved south for winter. Though she was bright and bubbly as always, Michael sensed a tremor beneath her smiles, a fleeting sadness that flickered in her eyes before she masked it again.
Eventually she checked her watch.
“I can’t stay long, Dad,” she said, a reluctant softness in her voice. “There’s a Christmas Eve gathering tonight. I promised Gordon we’d go. Don’t try to talk me out of it—we accepted weeks ago.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. She was young. Her life was full. He would not be the reason she dimmed her joy.
“I love you,” she said, rising from the booth. Then, leaning over the table with sudden intensity, she said, “Don’t move.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Just… promise me,” she whispered, her voice trembling in a way he couldn’t decipher.
Before he could respond, she turned and headed for the door. He watched her vanish into the swirling veil of snow, swallowed by a world of white.
A heaviness settled in his chest—not grief exactly, but something neighboring it. A vague sense that this moment mattered more than he could name.
He leaned back, closing his eyes.
The café’s soft hum receded. The warmth slipped from his fingers. A sharp, sudden pain radiated from his chest—like a burst of winter inside him. The lights outside blurred into streaks of silver and gold. He felt himself slipping, falling inward.
The last image that burned behind his eyes was Lily’s face… luminous, sad, and strangely at peace.
Then--
He woke.
He was in a small bedroom, sunlight spilling across a quilt patterned with blue stars. The air was warm and smelled of pine and baking cookies.
He knew this room.
His childhood room.
The door opened, and his mother entered. She looked as she had in the early 60s—soft curls, flour on her apron, kindness radiating from her eyes.
“Come on, sweetheart,” she said cheerfully. “Time to get up. It’s your first day of kindergarten!”
He stared at her.
“Mom?” he whispered.
“Yes, honey?”
Michael swallowed. “I… I just saw my daughter.”
She paused—just a fraction of a second, but enough for him to sense something ripple through her.
Then she knelt beside him, cupping his cheek.
“Oh, Michael,” she murmured, her voice tender, aching. “You don’t have a daughter. You’re five years old.”
But her eyes—there was knowing there. And sorrow. And something like love reaching across impossible distances.
As she held him, he felt the lingering warmth of Lily’s cold fingertips. Felt the swirl of snow at the café window. Felt the strange truth:
Both worlds were real.
Both worlds were his.
And love crossed even the boundaries he no longer understood.
* * * * * * * * * *
It is a bitterly cold morning here in the northwoods. Heavy clouds hang low and unmoving. Dawn arrives—but just barely—its light pale and hesitant. Winter has finally settled in, with a quiet authority that leaves no room for doubt.
Inside the wee cottage, the fire crackles with its own kind of welcome. I wrap my hands around my mug of coffee—its warmth startling, necessary, grounding. The delicate violin notes of Hildur Guðnadóttir’s “Bær” drift through the room, pulling me gently out of the spell of Michael’s story.
I pause.
I breathe.
I am moved by the mystery—how life can hold so much tenderness, so much ache, so much possibility at once. Stories remind us what we forget in the rush of living: that love is larger than time, that hope is stronger than certainty, and that wonder waits quietly for us to turn our eyes toward it.
Nick Ortner’s words rise in my awareness:
“Look up and you will see the sky.
Look down and you will see the ground.
Look for anger, and you will find it.
Look for joy, there it is.
Look for fear, find it staring back at you.
Look for hope, and feel its warm embrace.
You decide where to look.
Where are you going to look today?”
Such profound truth.
Where am I going to look today?
This cold morning, I choose grace.
I choose hope.
I choose possibility.
I choose magic.
I choose to look gently, lovingly, gratefully upon this new day and all the potential it carries.
And so…
I begin.
* * * * * * * * * *“
We dream in both directions--
toward what was and toward what might yet be.” ~Mark Nepo
~Wylddane
It's just the flu, he told himself, rubbing the dull ache at his temples. But something deeper whispered of exhaustion, of years quietly accumulating behind him.
He was on his way to meet his daughter, Lily, for their annual Christmas Eve coffee—a tradition born when she was six and insisted that he must drink hot chocolate with her to “celebrate properly.” She was grown now, her life its own constellation—friends, work, plans—but this ritual remained one of the still points of his year.
He found her already at their usual café, tucked into a corner booth near the frosted window. Lily looked up as he entered, a spark of warmth lighting her face.
“Dad… you look awful.” Concern overtook the warmth immediately. “Are you okay?”
“Just a chill,” Michael replied, forcing a smile. “The wind is something fierce tonight.”
As he sat, she reached out instinctively and squeezed his hand. Her touch felt colder than the air outside.
They talked—about her holiday plans, his unfinished Christmas cards, an elderly neighbor who had finally moved south for winter. Though she was bright and bubbly as always, Michael sensed a tremor beneath her smiles, a fleeting sadness that flickered in her eyes before she masked it again.
Eventually she checked her watch.
“I can’t stay long, Dad,” she said, a reluctant softness in her voice. “There’s a Christmas Eve gathering tonight. I promised Gordon we’d go. Don’t try to talk me out of it—we accepted weeks ago.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. She was young. Her life was full. He would not be the reason she dimmed her joy.
“I love you,” she said, rising from the booth. Then, leaning over the table with sudden intensity, she said, “Don’t move.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Just… promise me,” she whispered, her voice trembling in a way he couldn’t decipher.
Before he could respond, she turned and headed for the door. He watched her vanish into the swirling veil of snow, swallowed by a world of white.
A heaviness settled in his chest—not grief exactly, but something neighboring it. A vague sense that this moment mattered more than he could name.
He leaned back, closing his eyes.
The café’s soft hum receded. The warmth slipped from his fingers. A sharp, sudden pain radiated from his chest—like a burst of winter inside him. The lights outside blurred into streaks of silver and gold. He felt himself slipping, falling inward.
The last image that burned behind his eyes was Lily’s face… luminous, sad, and strangely at peace.
Then--
He woke.
He was in a small bedroom, sunlight spilling across a quilt patterned with blue stars. The air was warm and smelled of pine and baking cookies.
He knew this room.
His childhood room.
The door opened, and his mother entered. She looked as she had in the early 60s—soft curls, flour on her apron, kindness radiating from her eyes.
“Come on, sweetheart,” she said cheerfully. “Time to get up. It’s your first day of kindergarten!”
He stared at her.
“Mom?” he whispered.
“Yes, honey?”
Michael swallowed. “I… I just saw my daughter.”
She paused—just a fraction of a second, but enough for him to sense something ripple through her.
Then she knelt beside him, cupping his cheek.
“Oh, Michael,” she murmured, her voice tender, aching. “You don’t have a daughter. You’re five years old.”
But her eyes—there was knowing there. And sorrow. And something like love reaching across impossible distances.
As she held him, he felt the lingering warmth of Lily’s cold fingertips. Felt the swirl of snow at the café window. Felt the strange truth:
Both worlds were real.
Both worlds were his.
And love crossed even the boundaries he no longer understood.
* * * * * * * * * *
It is a bitterly cold morning here in the northwoods. Heavy clouds hang low and unmoving. Dawn arrives—but just barely—its light pale and hesitant. Winter has finally settled in, with a quiet authority that leaves no room for doubt.
Inside the wee cottage, the fire crackles with its own kind of welcome. I wrap my hands around my mug of coffee—its warmth startling, necessary, grounding. The delicate violin notes of Hildur Guðnadóttir’s “Bær” drift through the room, pulling me gently out of the spell of Michael’s story.
I pause.
I breathe.
I am moved by the mystery—how life can hold so much tenderness, so much ache, so much possibility at once. Stories remind us what we forget in the rush of living: that love is larger than time, that hope is stronger than certainty, and that wonder waits quietly for us to turn our eyes toward it.
Nick Ortner’s words rise in my awareness:
“Look up and you will see the sky.
Look down and you will see the ground.
Look for anger, and you will find it.
Look for joy, there it is.
Look for fear, find it staring back at you.
Look for hope, and feel its warm embrace.
You decide where to look.
Where are you going to look today?”
Such profound truth.
Where am I going to look today?
This cold morning, I choose grace.
I choose hope.
I choose possibility.
I choose magic.
I choose to look gently, lovingly, gratefully upon this new day and all the potential it carries.
And so…
I begin.
* * * * * * * * * *“
We dream in both directions--
toward what was and toward what might yet be.” ~Mark Nepo
~Wylddane
RSS Feed