A dilapidated house, its walls cracked and sagging with age, shelters a fireplace that once radiated warmth and joy. Dust and decay have claimed the room, where dusty, torn stockings hang limply from the mantle, their once- bright colors faded to muted grays and browns. The fireplace is cold and lifeless, filled with the ashen remains of a fire that burned out long ago, its faint, smoky scent lingering faintly in the stagnant air. Cobwebs stretch like ghostly veils across the mantle, clinging to forgotten knickknacks: a tarnished candlestick, a broken snow globe, and a faded family photo in a cracked frame. Above, a weathered holiday wreath hangs crookedly, its pine needles brittle and shedding with every passing draft. The floor is littered with fragments of a once- vivid life—torn wrapping paper, broken ornaments, and scattered pine needles from a long- gone tree. The dim light of a clouded, wintry sky seeps through a shattered window, casting an eerie glow on the scene. Outside, the wind howls, rattling the loose shutters and adding to the air of abandonment. The room tells a story of a Christmas left behind, where joy has been replaced by silence and neglect. The stockings remain, forgotten but still hanging, as if waiting for a return that will never come