I lurch onward, burdened by gifts and a feeling I can’t quite place. Glad am I when my street comes into view. The name is the same but there is something different about the neighbourhood. I ignore the alarm bells ringing in my mind. One foot, drag. One foot, drag. I make it up the porch steps and thump a mangled claw upon the door.
Call it instinct, call it determination. My family moved on shortly after I died. Yet here I am, still desperate to make it home for Christmas now, as if returning is something that truly matters.
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