December 21, 2025

“May the longest night and the shortest day,
bring rest to your soul in every way.
May the flicker of candle and warmth of fire,
remind you of love, and lift you higher.
May you find peace in the still of night,
and hope in the returning light.”
— Traditional Pagan Yule Blessing

The village of Coldwater Pass didn’t often speak of the old fire ring atop Sable Hill. In winter, it was buried under snow and silence, a ring of blackened stones older than the town itself. But once every few generations, when the moon hung low and the solstice night stretched longer than it should, the fire returned on its own.

This year, Dr. Eleanor Grage, exhausted from the madness of her polar expeditions and half-willing herself into early retirement, accepted an invitation to spend Yule at a remote cottage there. She needed the quiet. Or so she thought.

As the sun dipped, villagers gathered near the hilltop, whispering old chants, many too hushed to make out. Eleanor, notebook in hand, scribbled their words like an anthropologist cataloging a dying tradition. Her assistant, August, stood close behind her, his breath misting in the air.

“You do realize no one invited us up that hill,” August said, eyes fixed on the ring.

“Neither did the fire,” she replied. “And yet here it is.”

By nightfall, the blaze was already roaring. No one had lit it. It simply was, as if it remembered how. The flames were unnaturally still—no wind, no flicker. Just steady tongues of deep crimson and cold white heat.

One by one, the villagers began to weep. Eleanor saw their faces change—some gasped, others stared, hollow-eyed. Across the flames, images began to form. Faces. Not ghostly—real. Solid as any person. A boy lost in a blizzard a decade ago. A husband who never returned from war. A sister buried and unmourned. Sins and secrets and long-dead sorrows made visible by fire.

Eleanor stepped closer, drawn to the blaze like a moth. Then she saw her—a woman with Eleanor’s eyes, her grandmother maybe, staring through her with an expression Eleanor couldn’t place. Behind her, others. Hundreds of them. Their mouths didn’t move, but Eleanor heard them anyway.

“We never left. We remember. Do you?”

August grabbed her arm. “We need to go. Now.”

She nodded, just barely. And yet, as they turned away, the fire hissed—and one of the flames twisted, following them, whispering in a voice only Eleanor could hear:

“You lit us long ago. And you will again.”

By morning, the fire ring was empty once more. Just blackened stones. But Eleanor’s coat smelled of smoke that wouldn’t fade, and in the mirror, she sometimes caught a glimpse of someone standing just behind her. Someone who looked like a memory.