“Mom? Dad?” My voice cracked, swallowed instantly by the shadows.

There was no smell of cinnamon or pine. No hum of the furnace. Just the white plume of my own breath ghosting in front of my face.

I walked deeper into the house, my boots crunching on the frost that had begun to form on the carpet near the drafty window. The living room was a mausoleum. No tree. No stockings. Just the furniture, draped in shadows, looking like crouching beasts.

And then, the note.

It sat on the granite kitchen counter, a stark white square against the dark stone. A single sheet of lined paper, torn hastily from a legal pad. I picked it up, my leather gloves creaking.

We went on a cruise. You take care of Grandpa.