Tick tock goes the clock. I’m standing in the living room in Doninga. The lights are off and the fireplace is unlit but the room is full of morning. I never knew there was a clock in here but I suppose you wouldn’t hear it over conversation. I can hear it over my thoughts, though. The roof is low because the house is old. The couches sag because they too are old. The far one has groaned and cracked ever since I can remember, and when we’d all gather here in Doninga every Christmas Eve, we’d wonder who it would…

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