"The Crystal Christmas Bell" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
In the quiet parlor of Liam’s home, a single crystal bell hung from a faded velvet ribbon, suspended near the window where winter light pooled softly on the floor. It had once belonged to his mother, and before that, her mother—a fragile inheritance passed not through wills, but through Decembers.
The bell did not ring like metal. When stirred, it hummed—low and warm, as if remembering a choir it once sang with long ago.
Liam stood before it longer than he intended. He had grown old in this house, though he had not been born here. Time had thinned his hair, softened his hands, and sharpened his memories. He had learned that age did not erase the past—it layered it.
When he finally reached out and brushed the glass with his fingertips, the bell began to glow.
Not brightly. Not suddenly. But with a patient light, the kind that knows how to wait.
The room filled—not with sound alone—but with presence. Frost traced patterns on the windowpane, then loosened and swirled, forming fleeting shapes. His father’s booming laugh echoed faintly in the walls. The scent of cinnamon and yeast rose from nowhere at all, and for a moment Liam was eight years old again, standing barefoot in a warm kitchen while snow pressed its face against the glass.
Each gentle swing of the bell released a memory, precise and tender.
One chime carried him to the blizzard of ’98—the door flying open, the bite of cold air, the exhilaration of being snowed in with nowhere else to be. Another brought the quiet click of knitting needles, his grandmother’s hands moving with practiced grace beside the hearth, her presence steady as breath.
The bell was more than an heirloom. It was a living archive. A bridge stretched delicately between then and now, between those still breathing and those who had slipped quietly into starlight.
And yet—this year—Liam noticed something he had never seen before.
Near the rim, just where the glass curved inward, there was a small, unpolished place. Not a crack. Not damage. Just…space.
The bell, he realized, was waiting.
It did not exist only to hold what had been. It was asking for what might still be.
Liam closed his eyes. He thought not of wishes, but of intentions—of gentler mornings, of patience with himself, of noticing beauty even when days felt heavy. He whispered nothing aloud. He did not need to.
When he let the bell swing one final time, its hum lingered longer than before, dissolving slowly into the quiet house. As the sound faded, a new shimmer appeared in the glass—a faint thread of gold, warming the unpolished place.
A memory forming.
Right now.
* * * * * * * * * *
The morning sky draws me in—its soft hues, deep blues giving way to pale light, a sliver of moon lingering as if reluctant to leave. Bare trees stand in silhouette, honest and unadorned, accenting the view rather than competing with it.
I take a sip of coffee.
Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 8, “Pathétique” flows through the room, each note a message—solemn, tender, resolute. A balm for the ears. For the soul. A reminder that beauty often carries weight, and that weight does not diminish its grace.
A new day is arriving.
The last few days of my life have been tumultuous, so I linger here. I allow myself this moment of stillness. I draw strength from it.
Eckhart Tolle once wrote: “Whatever the present moment contains, accept it as if you had chosen it.”
So I do. I let this moment simply be.
I think of Liam. Of the crystal bell. Of the memories it holds—and the ones it waits to receive.
What memories will I be creating today?
What images from this day will linger in my mind, my heart, my soul?
I hope—quietly, sincerely—that they are as beautiful as this moment.
And so, I begin.
* * * * * * * * * *
"Some things do not ring to be heard, but to remind us we are still listening."
~Wylddane
The bell did not ring like metal. When stirred, it hummed—low and warm, as if remembering a choir it once sang with long ago.
Liam stood before it longer than he intended. He had grown old in this house, though he had not been born here. Time had thinned his hair, softened his hands, and sharpened his memories. He had learned that age did not erase the past—it layered it.
When he finally reached out and brushed the glass with his fingertips, the bell began to glow.
Not brightly. Not suddenly. But with a patient light, the kind that knows how to wait.
The room filled—not with sound alone—but with presence. Frost traced patterns on the windowpane, then loosened and swirled, forming fleeting shapes. His father’s booming laugh echoed faintly in the walls. The scent of cinnamon and yeast rose from nowhere at all, and for a moment Liam was eight years old again, standing barefoot in a warm kitchen while snow pressed its face against the glass.
Each gentle swing of the bell released a memory, precise and tender.
One chime carried him to the blizzard of ’98—the door flying open, the bite of cold air, the exhilaration of being snowed in with nowhere else to be. Another brought the quiet click of knitting needles, his grandmother’s hands moving with practiced grace beside the hearth, her presence steady as breath.
The bell was more than an heirloom. It was a living archive. A bridge stretched delicately between then and now, between those still breathing and those who had slipped quietly into starlight.
And yet—this year—Liam noticed something he had never seen before.
Near the rim, just where the glass curved inward, there was a small, unpolished place. Not a crack. Not damage. Just…space.
The bell, he realized, was waiting.
It did not exist only to hold what had been. It was asking for what might still be.
Liam closed his eyes. He thought not of wishes, but of intentions—of gentler mornings, of patience with himself, of noticing beauty even when days felt heavy. He whispered nothing aloud. He did not need to.
When he let the bell swing one final time, its hum lingered longer than before, dissolving slowly into the quiet house. As the sound faded, a new shimmer appeared in the glass—a faint thread of gold, warming the unpolished place.
A memory forming.
Right now.
* * * * * * * * * *
The morning sky draws me in—its soft hues, deep blues giving way to pale light, a sliver of moon lingering as if reluctant to leave. Bare trees stand in silhouette, honest and unadorned, accenting the view rather than competing with it.
I take a sip of coffee.
Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 8, “Pathétique” flows through the room, each note a message—solemn, tender, resolute. A balm for the ears. For the soul. A reminder that beauty often carries weight, and that weight does not diminish its grace.
A new day is arriving.
The last few days of my life have been tumultuous, so I linger here. I allow myself this moment of stillness. I draw strength from it.
Eckhart Tolle once wrote: “Whatever the present moment contains, accept it as if you had chosen it.”
So I do. I let this moment simply be.
I think of Liam. Of the crystal bell. Of the memories it holds—and the ones it waits to receive.
What memories will I be creating today?
What images from this day will linger in my mind, my heart, my soul?
I hope—quietly, sincerely—that they are as beautiful as this moment.
And so, I begin.
* * * * * * * * * *
"Some things do not ring to be heard, but to remind us we are still listening."
~Wylddane
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