Snow Fell Softly Over Edinburgh
Snow fell softly over Edinburgh that Christmas Eve, wrapping the ancient city in a hush so deep it felt sacred. The castle loomed above the skyline like a silent guardian, its stone walls glowing faintly under strings of golden lights. Below, narrow streets shimmered with frost, and the air carried the scent of pine, smoke, and distant bells.
High above it all, in a glass-walled apartment overlooking the Royal Mile, Matthias Kerr stood alone.
The Christmas tree beside him was flawless — a towering fir imported from Norway, decorated by professionals hired weeks in advance. Gold ribbons cascaded between crystal ornaments. Tiny lights blinked in perfect symmetry. Beneath it sat wrapped gifts he had never opened, sent by partners, investors, and acquaintances who knew his name but not his heart.
Everything looked perfect.
And yet the silence pressed in on him like a weight.
Matthias lifted a glass of twelve-year-old scotch and stared at his reflection in the window. The man staring back looked successful. Controlled. Untouchable. Forty-two years old, founder and CEO of a multinational technology firm, featured in business magazines and keynote stages across three continents.
But behind the tailored suit and disciplined posture was something hollow.
A life filled with meetings, negotiations, and accolades — and utterly empty of warmth.
Outside, snowflakes drifted lazily past the glass. Inside, time felt frozen.
He had told himself he preferred it this way. Quiet meant efficiency. Solitude meant focus. Relationships complicated things. People disappointed you. Expectations became chains.
That was the story he’d told himself for years.
Still… on nights like this, the story rang thin.
He took a slow sip, then lowered the glass, untouched by the taste.
That was when he heard it.
Small footsteps.
Soft. Hesitant.
The sound broke through the silence like a crack in ice.
Matthias turned toward the hallway just as his housekeeper appeared at the doorway. Ana Morales stood there bundled in her winter coat, a knitted scarf wrapped twice around her neck. Her dark hair was pinned back neatly, as it always was, though tonight a few strands had escaped.
Behind her stood a small girl, no more than six years old, clutching something in both hands.
“Mr. Kerr,” Ana said gently. “We’re heading home. I just wanted to say good night. Merry Christmas.”
Her voice carried warmth — the kind that came naturally to her, no matter how tired she was. Ana had worked for him for nearly four years. She cleaned, cooked, kept the apartment immaculate, and never once complained. She was punctual, respectful, and unfailingly kind.
Yet he realized, with a quiet ache, that he knew almost nothing about her life beyond these walls.
The little girl beside her shifted her weight, peeking out from behind her mother’s coat. She held a paper snowman made from torn magazine pages, carefully glued together, its crooked smile drawn in marker.
Lucia.
Matthias had seen her only a handful of times before — usually in passing, usually shy and silent.
Tonight, she looked up at him with wide, curious eyes.
“Mister,” she asked suddenly, her voice small but clear, “why are you spending Christmas all by yourself?”
The words landed without cruelty, without intention. Just honest curiosity.
Ana froze.
Her face drained of color. “Lucia!” she whispered sharply. “You don’t ask questions like that.”
The child flinched, clutching the paper snowman closer.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
But Matthias didn’t scold her.
He didn’t laugh it off either.
The question hung in the air, heavy and unavoidable.
Why was he spending Christmas alone?
For a moment, he couldn’t summon a clever reply. No polished deflection. No business-like humor. The truth sat uncomfortably close to the surface.
Because I chose this.
Because I was taught that closeness is weakness.
Because I never learned how to belong.
He cleared his throat softly.
“That’s… a fair question,” he said at last.
Ana shifted nervously. “She didn’t mean—”
“It’s all right,” he said gently, surprising even himself.
Lucia studied him with open curiosity, then tilted her head. “Don’t you have a family?”
Matthias hesitated.
“I suppose I do,” he said slowly. “Just… not one I spend holidays with.”
Lucia considered this deeply, as children do. Then she brightened.
“Well,” she said, “we’re having dinner. You could come.”
Ana inhaled sharply. “Lucia—”
“It’s okay,” Matthias interrupted, a faint smile touching his lips. “Let her speak.”
The girl continued, encouraged. “It’s not fancy. Mama says the chicken might be dry because the oven is old. And my uncle burns the potatoes sometimes. But we laugh a lot. And we have pudding. Too much pudding.”
Ana pressed her lips together, embarrassed but smiling despite herself.
“We live just down the street,” she said quickly. “Number twelve on Glenwood Street. The house with the crooked angel on the roof. It’s… it’s nothing special.”
Matthias met her eyes. There was no expectation there — only sincerity, and perhaps a flicker of hope she tried to hide.
“That’s very kind of you,” he said slowly. “But I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
Lucia stepped forward boldly. “You won’t. You can sit next to me.”
Ana let out a nervous laugh. “Lucia…”
“It’s okay,” Matthias said again, softer this time.
They exchanged a look — employer and employee, two people separated by roles and years and circumstance. Then Ana nodded once.
“If you change your mind,” she said, “we’ll be there.”
She reached for Lucia’s hand. The girl waved enthusiastically before being gently tugged toward the door.
“Merry Christmas, Mister!” she chirped.
The door closed.
Silence rushed back in.
But it felt different now — louder somehow.
Matthias stood motionless, staring at the place where they’d been. The echo of Lucia’s question replayed in his mind.
Why are you spending Christmas all by yourself?
He glanced at the pristine tree. The unopened gifts. The untouched scotch.
The perfection suddenly felt obscene.
He poured the drink into the sink.
At 8:45 p.m., he put on his coat.
At 9:10, he stood on Glenwood Street, snow crunching beneath his shoes.
The houses here were modest, close together, their bricks worn by time. Warm light glowed from nearly every window. Laughter drifted into the cold night air. Somewhere, someone was singing off-key.
At the very end of the street stood a small brick house with a crooked ceramic angel perched on the roof, its wing chipped and tilted as if mid-fall.
Light spilled from its windows like an invitation.
Before Matthias could second-guess himself, the door swung open.
Ana stood there, eyes wide with surprise.
“Mr. Kerr…”
He cleared his throat. “I hope I’m not too late.”
For a heartbeat, she simply stared.
Then her face softened, relief and warmth blooming at once. “You’re right on time.”
Inside, heat wrapped around him like an embrace.
The house was small but alive — alive in a way his penthouse had never been. Paper garlands made from old magazines hung across the walls. Mismatched ornaments dangled from a modest tree in the corner. The scent of roasted chicken, herbs, and bread filled the air.
Voices overlapped. Laughter burst out freely.
Lucia squealed when she saw him. “You came!”
She ran over and grabbed his hand without hesitation, pulling him inside as if he’d always belonged there.
“This is Mr. Kerr!” she announced proudly to the room.
Several faces turned toward him — Ana’s relatives, neighbors, friends. Curious, warm, unguarded.
Someone clapped him on the shoulder. “Any friend of Ana’s is welcome here!”
A chair was dragged out. A plate appeared in front of him before he could protest.
“Sit, lad,” an older man said cheerfully. “There’s more than enough.”
Matthias sat.
Conversation flowed around him — stories overlapping, jokes half-finished, laughter erupting without warning. People teased one another lovingly. Someone argued about whether the chicken was too dry. Someone else insisted it was perfect.
He tasted the food.
It wasn’t perfect.
It was better.
The flavors were rich, comforting, imperfect in the most human way. He felt his shoulders loosen, his breathing slow. He found himself smiling without thinking.
After dinner, Ana’s brother pulled out a battered guitar. Someone clapped in rhythm. Someone else sang loudly and badly. Lucia danced in circles, her paper snowman forgotten on the table.
At one point, she climbed into Matthias’s lap as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Before he could protest, she plopped a paper crown onto his head.
“Now you’re the king,” she declared.
Laughter erupted.
Matthias laughed too — a deep, unguarded sound that startled even him.
For the first time in years, he wasn’t performing. He wasn’t managing or leading or proving anything.
He was simply there.
Later, when the music softened and conversation lulled, Ana approached him holding a small box wrapped in brown paper and twine.
“For you,” she said quietly.
He frowned. “You didn’t have to.”
She smiled gently. “You showed up. That’s enough.”
He unwrapped it carefully.
Inside was a small wooden ornament, carved by hand. It was shaped like a tiny house, slightly uneven, imperfect. On its front, etched in uneven, childlike letters, was a single word:
Welcome
His throat tightened.
“I… I don’t remember the last time someone gave me something that meant this much,” he said quietly.
Before Ana could respond, his phone vibrated in his pocket.
The screen lit up with a name he hadn’t expected to see tonight.
Father.
His stomach tightened.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, stepping outside.
The cold hit him immediately. Snow had begun falling harder now, swirling beneath the streetlight.
He answered.
“Matthias,” his father’s voice snapped, sharp and controlled. “I hear you’re spending Christmas with your cleaning staff.”
Matthias closed his eyes.
“Where did you hear that?”
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re embarrassing yourself. And this family. Do you have any idea how this looks?”
He said nothing.
“You are a Kerr,” his father continued. “You don’t mix personal sentiment with people who don’t understand our world. End this foolishness immediately. Or don’t bother showing your face at the firm again.”
There it was.
The familiar ultimatum.
For years, Matthias had bent under that voice. Had molded himself to its expectations. Had traded warmth for approval.
But something had shifted.
Inside that small house behind him, someone was laughing. Someone was waiting.
“I won’t,” Matthias said quietly.
“What did you say?”
“I won’t end it. And if kindness costs me my position, then I’ll pay that price.”
There was a stunned silence on the other end.
“You’re making a mistake,” his father said coldly.
“Maybe,” Matthias replied. “But for the first time, it feels like my own.”
He ended the call.
When he stepped back inside, the room had quieted. Conversation paused. Faces turned toward him.
Ana searched his face. “Bad news?”
He nodded. “My father doesn’t approve.”
She hesitated. “Do you… do you care what he approves of?”
Matthias looked around the room. At the crooked ornaments. At Lucia, now half-asleep on the couch, her paper crown slipping sideways. At the warmth, the noise, the life.
“No,” he said softly. “Not anymore.”
The night wound down slowly. People hugged goodbye. Dishes were stacked. Lucia fell asleep fully, curled on the sofa with her snowman.
When Matthias finally stepped back into the cold, the city felt different. Less distant. Less empty.
The next morning, he walked into the boardroom of his company.
Executives sat stiffly around the long table. His father stood at the window.
Matthias spoke calmly, clearly.
“I’m stepping away from day-to-day control. Effective immediately.”
Murmurs rippled through the room.
“If compassion disqualifies me from leadership,” he continued, “then I don’t belong here.”
His father turned, stunned.
“You’re throwing everything away.”
“No,” Matthias said evenly. “I’m choosing something real.”
Silence followed.
Then he turned and walked out.
The air outside was cold and sharp, but it felt clean in his lungs.
That evening, he returned to Glenwood Street.
Ana opened the door slowly, uncertainty flickering across her face.
He held up the small wooden ornament.
“If the offer still stands,” he said gently, “I’d like to come home.”
She didn’t speak. She simply stepped aside.
Lucia stirred on the couch and blinked sleepily. “You came back.”
“I did,” he said, kneeling beside her.
She smiled and closed her eyes again.
They ate leftovers. Laughed quietly. Talked about nothing important at all.
Weeks passed. Then months.
Matthias didn’t disappear from the world — but he reshaped his place in it. He invested in community programs. Funded housing initiatives. Mentored young entrepreneurs without conditions.
And every evening, he returned to Glenwood Street.
A year later, snow fell again over Edinburgh.
The crooked angel still leaned on the roof.
Inside, the house smelled of cinnamon and candle wax. Laughter echoed through the rooms. Lucia danced near the tree, older now, taller, still bright.
Matthias reached up and hung the small wooden ornament near the top of the tree.
Its carved word caught the glow of the lights:
Welcome.
He finally understood what it meant.
Because that Christmas — in a crowded house on a quiet street — Matthias Kerr hadn’t just found company.
He had found belonging.
