Chapter 5
I pulled my cloak tighter around me, though I didn't feel the cold as mortals did. The streets were empty, save for the occasional flicker of candlelight in distant windows. This was a place of poverty, where the frost crept through cracks in walls and despair hung in the air like smoke.
I had been searching for hours. Santa's cryptic clues about the Ghost of Christmas Past had led me here, to this forgotten corner of the mortal realm. The ghost's current incarnation was supposed to be a dying girl, but he had given me no name, no specific location—just the storm and a whisper of fate to guide me.
The wind shifted, carrying a faint sound to my ears: a soft, broken sob. It was barely audible over the storm, but it was enough. I followed the sound, weaving through narrow alleyways choked with snow until I came upon a small figure huddled in a dark corner.
The girl couldn't have been older than thirteen. Her frame was frail, her face gaunt, and her skin as pale as the snow that surrounded her. She wore a threadbare coat, the fabric patched and torn, offering little protection against the biting cold. Her lips were blue, her breath shallow, and her wide, sunken eyes stared vacantly at the ground.
She didn't flinch when I approached. Most mortals recoiled in fear when confronted with the shadow of death, but this girl... she simply sat there, her arms wrapped around her knees, as though she had already accepted her fate.
"You're dying," I said, my voice cutting through the storm.
She glanced up at me, her gaze dull and lifeless. "I know." Her voice was hoarse, as if she hadn't spoken in days. "You're here for my soul, aren't you? To take me away?"
I crouched down, bringing myself to her level. The shadows around me flickered, reacting to the sorrow in her eyes. "No," I said. "Not your soul. Not yet."
Her brow furrowed in confusion. "Then why are you here?"
"Because I am going to need your help," I replied. "You my dear, are about to become a part of something great."
She let out a bitter laugh, a sound devoid of joy. "Great? I'm nothing. Just another orphan freezing to death in an alley. What could possibly be so important about me?"
I reached out, my gloved hand resting gently on her shoulder. "You're the Ghost of Christmas Past."
Her eyes widened slightly, but she shook her head, disbelief etched across her features. "Are you seriously making a joke at the moment? That is just some character in the Christmas Carol."
"And you are taking to an actual god, so why not believe that other things may be real as well? This is weird for me to say, but Saint Nick has asked that I come to find you."
"Oh please, I am to old for Santa. Just let me die." She muttered, and yet I could see the tears in her eyes.
"I can't do that," I said firmly. "You have a role to play, and whether you believe it or not, the world needs you. I need you. Santa Clause need's you."
Tears welled in her eyes, but she quickly wiped them away, her expression hardening. "Why would anyone need me? No one's ever needed me."
Her words struck a chord deep within me. I saw in her a reflection of my own past—the loneliness, the bitterness, the sense of being cast aside. She was a girl who had been abandoned by the world, left to fend for herself in the cold, unyielding darkness.
"The world has been cruel to you," I said softly. "But that doesn't mean you're not important. You have the power to change things, to show people the truth of what they've forgotten. You've already lived through so much pain. Use it to make a difference."
She stared at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "You really believe that?"
"I do," I said, and for the first time in centuries, I meant it.
She hesitated, then slowly reached out her hand. Her fingers trembled as they brushed against mine, and I could feel the faint spark of her fading life. "If you're wrong..." she began, but she didn't finish the sentence. Instead, she took my hand fully, gripping it with what little strength she had left.
A strange light enveloped her, soft and warm, cutting through the icy darkness of the alley. Her frail body grew still, and I knew she had passed. But in that moment, I felt something else—a surge of energy, ancient and powerful, as her spirit transformed.
When the light faded, she stood before me, no longer a dying child but something more. Her form shimmered, translucent yet radiant, her features still recognizable but imbued with an ethereal glow. Her eyes, once dull, now shone with a fierce determination.
"So this is what it feels like to be dead," she said, her tone lighter than before. She looked down at her hands, flexing her fingers as if testing their solidity. "Weird. But... not as bad as I thought."
I smiled faintly. She looked at me, her expression softening. "Thank you. For believing in me."
"Don't thank me yet," I said. "We still have work to do."
She nodded, a spark of determination igniting within her. "Then let's not waste any time."
As we stepped out of the alley, the storm began to wane, the wind dying down to a gentle whisper. The snow still fell, but it was no longer a threat—it was a quiet reminder of the world we were trying to save. And as I walked beside the newly reborn Ghost of Christmas Past, I felt, for the first time in ages, a flicker of hope.