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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alt="The Ruins by David Albano"
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>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="The Final Gift Before Joining Our Family by Katara J. Z."
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="O, Christmas Tree by S. Jade Path"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="I'll be Home for Christmas by Timmy le Frog"
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>