A faded jewellery box with a lacklustre ribbon beckoned from my stocking.
Merry Christmas Eve, my future in-laws whispered.
Waiting inside: a tarnished watch, hands frozen a minute to midnight. Held against my ear, it ticked faintly—a metronome to my pulse.
I strapped on the cracked watch.
The clasp clicked closed, and the hands blurred into motion.
Day, night, waxing, waning.
My arm.
Mountains of wrinkles, liver spots, paper-thin skin. Protruding bone.
***
The great-great-great-grandmother sucked clean the skin, gnawed the bone, and undid the gleaming watch from the corpse, her body twenty-seven once again.
Christmas magic, the soul-eaters snickered.
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