New Year Stillness
November always drags in like a heavy, sodden blanket over Londondreary skies, drizzle slicking the pavements, and a familiar longing for something brighter. The days felt endless, as though sunlight had been rationed. December snuck in without fanfare; I only noticed its arrival because of the gleaming adverts for prosecco, Royal Beluga caviar, and crates of oranges everywhere I turned.
The city burst into a frenzyshops flashing fairy lights, crowds wrestling armfuls of gift bags, weaving through the streets as if auditioning for an obstacle race. Everyone rushing, bustling, planning for something. Something I wasnt a part of.
At forty years old, with a divorce finalised three months ago, I found myself waiting for it all to simply pass. There were no children, which meant no sticky compromises or bittersweet decisions. Just two parallel lives that quietly parted at last.
Happy New Year! my colleagues called, grinning and winking as if this glittering promise still held allure.
I returned their wishes with a polite smile, emptied of joy. From morning to night, a single phrase echoed in my mind: Its nothing special. Just December becoming January. Just Wednesday blending into Thursday. No reason for celebration.
My plans for New Years Eve were straightforward and precise: a hot shower, worn pyjamas, a cup of chamomile tea, and bed by ten, just like any other night.
No potato salad, no Love Actually reruns, no bottle of fizz growing dusty in the fridge until next Christmas.
***
The evening rolled around, almost mocking the citys collective joy. Rain hammered down, icy and relentless, joining with slush on the kerb. The sky pressed in grey and close, and the lights on the High Street glimmered weakly, strangers to warmth. It was the perfect night to hibernate.
By half nine, I lay cocooned in my duvet, listening to muffled music seep through the wall from the neighbours flat. Eyes closed, I tried to sleep.
A sudden, sharp noise broke throughimpossible to ignore.
Someone wasnt knocking but thudding, insistent and rhythmic against my front door. I sat up in bed, muttering darkly about drunken fools and their lack of manners. The clock flashed:
11:45 pm
I stood, but didnt approach the door. Surely, it was a mistakea neighbour confused by identical doors and landings. They would stop soon. Out of habit, I drifted to the window to peer outand stopped dead.
Everything outside glowed pure white. The rain and muck had vanished. Enormous, feathery snowflakes wheeled through the lamplight, settling gently over cars and pavement like the eiderdown duvets from my childhood.
Over a matter of hours, the world had transformedenchanted, pristine, a storybook London.
***
The knocking began again, gentler now but persistent.
Still captivated by the blizzard outside, I went to open the door. I wasnt thinking about the stranger; I was swept up by the moment. Unlocking the latch, I swung the door wide.
Standing there was my neighbour. Arthur from across the hallway. Older, with tousled grey hair and eyes that sparkled mischievously. He wore a battered tweed jacket with a scarf thrown over his shoulders.
In one hand, Arthur held a battered leather case; in the other, a glass jar filled to the brim with something deep red and glossy.
Sorry to disturb you, he rasped, but I happened to overhearor rather, I felta peculiar stillness from your flat this evening. New Years stillness is incredibly rare, so I couldnt help but notice.
I simply regarded him, then glanced at the snow swirling beneath the street lamp.
Arthur what are you doing here? I managed, feeling oddly adrift.
Ive brought you a token. He proffered the jar. This is cranberry cordial. My late wife swore by it. Said it cured any bout of dreariness. And lifting the caseId like to show you something. May I come in? Just for fifteen minutes, until midnight strikes.
I hesitated at the threshold. My apathy, my fiercely built wall of nothing special, crumbled a little. First the miraculous snow, now my eccentric neighbour with gifts in tow. Curiosityburied for years under layers of practical disappointmentflickered.
Alright, come in, I said, stepping aside.
Arthur brushed snow from his shoes and entered, leaving his coat on. He set the suitcase on the centre of the living room floor. The only light came from the streetlamp outside, spilling haloed patterns on the walls.
Its rather minimalist in here, he observed, but his tone held no judgement. Just an honest observation.
I wasn’t planning on celebrating, I replied, almost defensive.
I understand, Arthur nodded. After life shuffles the deck this way, holidays can feel like a slap in the face. Everyone around you is jubilant for no reason, but you you cant. Dont want to. You wonder what youre missing, if somethings wrong with you.
His words landed squarely. Until tonight, wed exchanged little more than weather clichés or comments about the post. Nothing deep.
Really?
Im an old man, Alice. I’ve witnessed a lot of winters and an equal measure of bleak Decembers. Ive learned: winter isnt an ending. Its earth pausing to gather strength. And wepeoplemust rest too, but not fall forever into sleep.
He flicked open the latches on his case. Inside, nestled against velvet, lay not belongings butglass baubles. Dozens of them. Each unique. A midnight blue one dusted with silvery flecks like the Milky Way. A crimson orb adorned with a golden rose, intricately painted. One clear sphere which, if tilted just so, caught and split the light into a miniature rainbow.
What are these? I whispered, inching closer.
My collection, Arthur replied, pride in his voice. Not stamps or coinsmemories. Each bauble marks a happy moment from my life. This one he held up the blueis when my wife and I first holidayed in the Lake District. We spent the night stargazing and promised to always stick together. We kept that promise. This he gestured to the redwas her first anniversary gift to me. She said love is a rose that never fades.
I gazed at the miniature universes, feeling my frosted heart begin to thaw. These werent mere decorationsthey were tales brimming with meaning, warmth, and love.
Why show me?
Because theres an emptiness in you. Arthur said softly, with gentle candour. But emptiness isnt a curse. Its spacespace to place something new. Watch.
Arthur produced a final bauble from his jacket, utterly clear, without embellishment.
This is for you, he said, passing it to me. Your first orb. A token of tonight. A symbol of opening your door, of witnessing the first snow, of the miracle that can bloom even in a silent, grey New Year.
I held the bauble. It was cool and smooth in my hand.
Midnight bells tolled, muffled shouts of Happy New Year! drifting through the city.
I looked at Arthur, whose eyes now seemed not merely mischievous but impossibly wise.
Thank you, I said, andfor the first time in agesa genuine, if shy, smile broke across my lips.
No need, Arthur smiled back. Now youve begun. And from hereyou alone decide what memory to tuck inside this bauble. Perhaps tomorrows cup of strong coffee. Perhaps a novels final chapter. Perhaps something even grander. Who knows? The years only begun.
He shut his case, wished me goodnight, and left, leaving me in the hush of my changed flat.
But this quiet was differentno longer heavy and vacant, but filled with a soft, budding sense of hope.
I stood by the window, bauble in hand, watching the snow erase old footprints and blanket London anew. And for the first time in months, I found myself thinking not of what had beenbut of what could be.
And in that moment, it truly felt like a New Year miracle.
