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December usually brings a predictable rhythm to my life, a quiet cadence of stacked essays, the comforting warmth of lukewarm tea, and the familiar sight of students who, despite their best efforts to appear indifferent, can’t quite mask the subtle flicker of magic in their eyes as the holiday season descends upon us. As a literature teacher, sixty-two years young, I’ve settled into a routine, a comfortable pattern that rarely deviates. But this year, the universe, it seems, had a different script written for me, a tiny, almost imperceptible tremor that would eventually rock the very foundations of my well-ordered existence. It began innocently enough, with Emily, one of my quieter students, approaching me after class. Her voice was soft, almost hesitant, as she explained a class project centered around meaningful holiday memories. I, of course, tried to wave her off, a practiced gesture of dismissal, insisting with a chuckle that my life, in its peaceful solitude, held no grand tales fit for public consumption. My memories, I assured her, were perhaps too ordinary, too unremarkable to capture the essence of a truly meaningful holiday. But Emily, with a gentle persistence that belied her quiet demeanor, asked a question, a single, delicate query that resonated through the empty classroom like the clear, resonant strike of a bell in a deserted hall, stripping away decades of careful composure and revealing something I had long thought buried forever, a question that momentarily stole the breath from my lungs and sent a shiver down my spine, forcing me to confront a ghost I had diligently kept at bay for far too long, leaving me utterly speechless as the weight of her words settled heavily in the silence between us. Had I ever truly, deeply loved someone around Christmas?
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