This is a Christmas story based on “A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens -- one of my all time favorites, since it’s such a wonderful tale of redemption.

I want to thank Trudy G. for her great help to me as my proofreader! {{{{Trudy}}}} Also, a big hug and thanks to my beta reader, Katherine Gilbert. Her support and encouragement are invaluable to me! {{{{Katherine}}}}

There are small spoilers for Simone and Darkness Visible. I would rate it PG mostly, perhaps PG-13 in chapters 4 and 5 for a bit of salty language. All the characters belong to LFN, and no copyright infringement is intended to either LFN or “A Christmas Carol.”

Hope you enjoy it, and as Tiny Tim would say, “God bless us, every one!”

kit

************

It was Christmas Eve.

… and it was a picture-perfect Christmas Eve. It had started snowing at mid-afternoon, and already the city streets were covered with three inches of glistening white splendor. The clouds held a promise of much more to come. There was no wind, and huge flakes of snow drifted gracefully to the ground, each one like a goose feather in its fullness and fluffiness.

Deep under ground in Section, Nikita finished her mission debrief and went to find Walter. “Ready?” she asked him.

“Yeah, Sugar. Let’s go.” Walter pulled down the grate that locked the weapons area.

“It looks like Birkoff’s ready, too.”

They looked over to the com area, and saw Birkoff pulling on his down vest and gloves. They walked over to him, and waited while he quietly spoke to Gail. Finishing his conversation with her, he informed Walter and Nikita, “She’s got a little more to do, but should be done in an hour. She says to go ahead without her, and she’ll be along.”

“You sure, Gail?” Nikita asked.

“I’m sure … go ahead … I’ll be there soon,” Gail reassured them with a smile.

Nodding in agreement, Nikita and the others walked toward the exit that would take them to ground level … 500 feet above them.

Nikita hesitated, and turned her head, looking toward Michael’s office. The door to his office was closed and his light was on. He was probably in there working. Head down, she thought for a second, and then turned on her heel. Over her shoulder, she advised her companions, “I just remembered something … go ahead and I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”

Walter and Birkoff regarded her quizzically for a few seconds, until they saw where she was heading. “Okay,” Birkoff agreed. “We’ll see you up there.”

Nikita walked across the huge Section common area until she was in front of Michael’s door. She hesitated for a second, and considered what she would say to the occupant of the office.

She knocked briefly, and then opened the door, sticking her head in to ask, “Have you got a minute?”

Michael was sitting at his desk, typing at his computer keyboard. He nodded the affirmative to her question, and reached down with his right hand to deactivate the surveillance equipment in his office. Nikita stepped inside, closed the door behind her, and then leaned against it. Michael regarded her silently.

“It’s Christmas Eve, Michael.”

“Yes.”

“Walter, Birkoff, and Gail are coming over to my apartment and we’re fixing dinner together. Then after dinner a group from my building is going caroling and we thought we’d join them… to go caroling.” Nikita felt a bit flustered.

Michael said nothing, and his silence made Nikita squirm, but she pressed on … “Would you like to join us? If you don’t have other plans, of course.”

“ I don’t have any plans, but I’m prepping a mission, so I’m going to work late this evening and spend the night in my quarters here.”

“The Gilbert mission?”

“Yes.”

“But that’s not scheduled for five days, Michael. You have plenty of time. You can take off a few hours tonight.”

“This is more important than any thing else.” Michael signaled the end of the conversation by lowering his head and resuming his typing on the keyboard.

Nikita stared at him for a few seconds and shook her head slightly in exasperation, “’Night, Michael. Merry Christmas.”

He lifted his head to reply, but she had gone, closing the door behind her before he could answer. He rose from his seat, and moved to the window. Through the opened blinds he could see her as she crossed the wide common area and joined Walter and Birkoff at one of the archways leading to the exits. Walter said something that made Nikita smile and punch him playfully in the arm. The three of them moved forward and disappeared from view as they turned the corner leading to the elevators.

Michael sighed, feeling the letdown he always experienced when he knew that Nikita had left the building. He sat down again but didn’t continue working. Some of his enthusiasm for the mission prep had left the building with Nikita. He thought about what she had asked. Join the group from Section to celebrate Christmas? Have dinner and then go caroling? He thought about Nikita’s apartment, and wondered how it would look this evening.

He guessed she would have a Christmas tree, and candles -- making a festive atmosphere. Probably Christmas music on the stereo. The thought of watching her … in the candlelight, cooking, and laughing with her friends was very appealing. He imagined sitting on the floor in her apartment, next to the glowing tree, with a glass of wine in his hand … watching her … enjoying her pleasure in the holiday entertainment.

“Merde.” Michael gave himself a mental shake. All those holiday festivities were in the past. Christmas celebrations did not have a place in his Section life. He had a mission to prep. The mission was more important than anything. Any thing else was a distraction … a weakness, and therefore, untenable.

Michael lowered his head and continued his work, his resolve strengthened.

************

Four hours later, he pushed back from his desk, satisfied with his work. The mission prep was finished, and as far as he could see, flawless. He had anticipated every contingency. It was one of his finest endeavors.

He glanced at his watch and saw that it was 11 pm. If he went to bed now he could get a good night’s sleep, and then start running some sims with Birkoff in the morning. With that thought in mind, he opened his phone and dialed Birkoff’s cell number. The young man answered on the first ring,

“Yeah?” he answered cautiously.

“Come in at 8 am tomorrow.”

There were a few moments of silence on the other end, and then Birkoff hesitantly protested, “But it’s Christmas.”

Michael decided to ignore Birkoff’s insubordination this one time, and reaffirmed his order to the young operative, “8 am,” before hanging up.

Michael signed off his computer, turned off the lights, and locked the door to his office before heading off to his Section quarters. Once there, he prepared for bed and stripped down to his boxer shorts. Climbing into bed, his thoughts drifted toward Nikita and her activities. He wondered what she was doing now. Then -- reminding himself that he needed his sleep, he turned on his side and closed his eyes, willing himself to banish all thoughts of the beautiful blonde from his head.

Sleep did not come.

He tossed and turned in the narrow bed, becoming irritated at his inability to relax. Valuable time was being wasted. He needed sleep to function at peak performance levels. His irritation was increased by the annoying sound that was echoing in the hallway outside his room … a clanging sound. What the hell was going on? Was it a fire alarm? A bell … growing louder. Louder and louder. It filled the room … seemed to come inside the room. Along with the bell sound was a clanking sound, a dragging sound, as if someone was dragging a heavy chain over the Section’s concrete hallways.

The door to his room flew open, despite it being locked, and Michael was confronted with the sight of a specter from his past … his dead wife Simone … standing before him.

His jaw fell open in disbelief.

It was her, the very same.

The same petite, Asian beauty who had been his wife … and had willingly died in the explosion on the mission against Sparks.

She was wearing mission clothes, and curiously… he was able to see straight through her body to the 9 mm she had tucked into her pants at her back. Around her waist was a long, heavy chain that fell to the ground and trailed behind her. Interspersed along the chain were guns, PDAs, and explosive devices. The door banged closed behind her.

They regarded each other silently.

“It’s me, Michael,” she said softly.

He gazed at her, one side of his mouth twitching slightly.

“You don’t believe in me.” Simone noted sadly.

“No. I don’t believe in ghosts,” he stated firmly. “What do you want from me?”

“To warn you … and to help you avoid my fate.”

“Your fate?”

“My fate is to dwell forever in hell. This means I roam the earth -- without rest, without peace, dragging my chain eternally. This chain that I wear was forged by my life … by the murder I committed before I entered Section, and by the life I lived in Section.”

“Your life in Section?”

“Yes,” she replied, closing her eyes. She continued in a whisper, “I became a machine to survive. I had no soul. I cared about nothing except the mission, and staying alive for one more day. Those things were more important than anything else and anyone else … even you.”

Michael bowed his head upon hearing this admission.

“In the end … I chose death over life. Revenge over living. Suicide. I died bitter … and full of hate. My life was wasted”

Simone continued, with a note of pleading in her voice, “There’s still hope for you, Michael. Still a chance that you can avoid my destiny.” When he did not respond she explained, “You will be visited by three spirits, one on each of the next three nights. Please do not forget what I have said to you.” After a long, lingering look … she stepped backward and slowly faded into the wall.

Michael got up and examined the door. It was locked. Shaking his head in disbelief, he crossed back to his bed and fell upon it. I don’t believe in ghosts, he reminded himself as he stared at the ceiling. I don’t understand this. I must be more tired than I thought. He pondered the vision for several more minutes before reminding himself that he needed to be fresh for the mission sims in the morning. I need to sleep to stay focused, he told himself.

With this rationalization to comfort him, he rolled onto his side. He closed his eyes and quickly fell asleep.

************

The First of the Three Spirits

Michael awoke to the sound of his watch alarm buzzing. He examined its glow in the dark and determined that he had been asleep for approximately one-half hour. That’s odd, he thought. It felt as if he had been asleep for much longer. Also strange was the fact that his watch alarm had gone off. He didn’t remember setting it.

He recalled his encounter with the apparition of Simone, and wondered if it had been one of Madeline's cruel hologram tricks. He was pondering what new depths of torment that the Section’s second-in-command would sink to when he heard a noise from the corner of the room. He reached for the gun hidden under his pillow. He chambered a round, ready to fire, and pointed it at the shadows.

He was completely astounded when a young boy stepped away from the wall, into the soft light cast from the open bathroom door. It was Peter, the somber young boy he and Nikita had rescued during their mission to the Balkans. Michael inquired gently,

“What are you doing here, Peter?”

“I am the first spirit, whose coming was foretold to you. I am the Ghost of Christmas Past … your past.”

“I don’t believe you. Why are you here?”

“For your welfare.” He continued, “We are alike, you and I. Both of had to grow up before our time, put our needs aside, and take care of our younger sisters.” He stepped forward to the edge of the bed, and Michael dropped the barrel of the gun. "Touch my hand,” Peter invited.

Michael reached out to gently grasp Peter’s hand …

Michael found himself tumbling, out of control down a black hole … wind rushing through his hair. Over and over he rolled, until he fell flat and hard against a polished wooden surface …

Michael found himself in the house of his youth -- his parents’ Paris townhouse. The walls, the pictures, and even the furniture were all as he remembered. He turned to Peter in confusion, “What are we doing here?”

“It’s Christmas morning, Michael. Look,” he said, gesturing toward the room ahead of them.

Michael and Peter moved forward to look through the doorway. In the end of a large formal room was a fireplace, with small shoes on the hearth -- candy and treats spilling out of them. On the next wall stood a huge and elaborately decorated Christmas tree, with colorful packages arranged below it. Gazing at all this splendor was a young auburn-haired boy with light green eyes who appeared to be about ten years old.

“The boy is me,” Michael breathed in a whisper.

Michael watched as his younger self drank in the bounty of gifts before him. The boy stared quietly for several seconds, and then turned with a wide grin, and raced for the curving stairs to the second level of the elegant home.

“Mama! Papa! He came! He came! Père Noël came!” The young Michael sped up the stairs, and could be heard running from room to room calling for his parents. The boy’s calls to his parents went unanswered, however. A note of panic could be heard in the young boy’s voice as he continued to call again and again.

“Oh, God, no,” the older Michael muttered, as he realized what was going on.

“Do you remember this Christmas?” Peter asked.

“Yes,” Michael whispered brokenly. He watched as an older woman, his nanny at the time, appeared from the back of the house. The woman called to young Michael -- who was now crying -- then sat him down at the foot of the stairs. She tried to comfort the frantic child.

“Where are they? Where are they?” the sobbing young child kept asking. “Where are my mama and papa? I want to show them what Père Noël brought me.”

“They’re not here, Michel. They left during the night. They left for vacation in Rome. They’ll be gone for two weeks. I thought you knew that,” the woman informed him, not unkindly -- full of pity for the distraught child. “Don’t be so sad, child. I’ll be here and play with you. And your sister is here, too. You two will have fun today, I’m sure,” she promised, patting his hand. “Plus, you must be a brave young man and be strong for your sister. Don’t let her see your tears. It will make her feel worse. Look, here she comes now.”

Young Michael, and his older self looked up to see the three-year-old, blue-eyed little girl who was Michael’s sister standing at the top of the stairs. She wore a pink flannel nightgown with her little bare feet peeking out below it. She smiled an angel’s smile down at Michael and asked hopefully,

“Did Père Noël come and bring us presents, Michel?”

Michael felt a tear slip from his eye against his will, remembering how lonely and abandoned he and his sister had felt that Christmas long ago. He turned to Peter and said, “I want to leave.” Peter stood there unmoving, so Michael demanded more harshly, “I want to go, NOW.” Peter nodded silently, and grasped Michael’s forearm.

Michael was next aware of being back in his Section quarters, standing in the middle of the room, completely exhausted. He barely made it to the bed before falling into a very deep sleep.

************

The Second of the Three Spirits

He slept for a long time. He drifted up from the layers of sleep, and gradually became aware of a curious yellow light that suffused the room. The glow became brighter and almost flame-like, and traveled upward until it came to rest upon the head of the next occupant of the room. Jurgen.

Jurgen stood tall, strong, and muscular in the middle of the room.

He smiled benevolently upon Michael and stated, “ I am the Ghost of Christmas Present. I need you to come with me. Touch my jacket.”

Michael did as he was told, and found himself traveling over the rooftops of the city. They zoomed along at a dizzying speed, until they landed on a familiar balcony. They touched down with a gentle thump, and Michael approached the French doors that led to the interior of the building. It was Nikita’s apartment. Peering inside, Michael could see Nikita, Walter, Birkoff, and Gail sitting on the floor in Nikita’s living room talking. The remains of their dinner could be seen on Nikita’s dining room table.

“Go ahead,” Jurgen urged him. “They can’t see you.”

Michael pushed open the French doors, and entered the apartment. The wonderful aroma of the shared dinner still lingered in the air. Just as he had guessed, Nikita had a Christmas tree, a big one, with an angel on the top that brushed the ceiling. It was chock-full of glittering ornaments, with every available branch dripping with them. Lighted red and green candles dotted the tables, countertops, and floors – giving off a lovely warm glow. The assembled friends sat on the floor next to the tree – its lights and the candles giving the only illumination in the room. It was a warm and enchanting setting. Birkoff filled everyone’s wine glass and asked,

“Can you believe it? Christmas morning and he wants me to come in and run some sims! If it’s for the Gilbert mission I’m going to croak! We’ve got five days until that profile is due. What a ball breaker! I’ll bet he’s just doing it to be a bastard. Or else his twisted brain has devised some f**king test of my loyalty to the Section.” Birkoff shook his head and appeared as if he was going to say more. Walter shot him a warning glance, and Birkoff closed his mouth.

Gail turned to Nikita, who was staring down into her wineglass, twirling its stem. “What did he say when you asked him to join us?”

“He said he had to prep the Gilbert mission.”

Gail shook her head, and asked, “God, Nikita, how can you stand him? He’s just a machine, through and through. There’s no hope for him.”

Nikita sighed. “I USED to have hope for him … hope that there was another side of him … a side that he would eventually show to me. But I’ve given up. I’ll always care about him … but I think he’s just too damaged … too much of a Section robot … for me to wait for him anymore. I’m moving on.” She continued in a more cheerful tone, “Did I tell you that Marco O’Brien asked me out to dinner?”

Michael flinched with pain at her words.

A chorus of exclamations was her answer, “Really?” “That’s great!!” “Are you going?”

Nikita laughed and explained, “ I don’t know if I will or not. But I’m considering it! Please don’t tell anyone. I don’t want any more of my life becoming Section gossip.”

Walter got up and went to the stereo, explaining “This is my favorite Christmas carol.” He turned the volume louder and the assembled group started to laugh as they heard an obscene version of “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” playing on the radio.

Jurgen pulled on Michael arm and said, “It’s time to go.”

Michael started to protest. As painful as Nikita’s words had been, he still wanted to linger … he didn’t want to miss the opportunity to look at her as she was relaxed and smiling … and beautiful in the candlelight.

Jurgen repeated more forcefully, “We have to go.”

************

The Last Of The Spirits

Michael found himself back in his bed in his quarters … his watch buzzing to signify midnight. Standing before him was a draped and hooded figure shrouded in black … Section black. The spirit approached him silently and waited.

“Are you the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?” Michael asked.

When the spirit did not answer, Michael asked, “Please show me what the future holds,” and reached forward to touch the ghost’s garment.

From the ground seemed to spring up a dark alley full of shadowy people standing over an inert figure on the pavement.

“Is he dead?”

“Yup.”

“Unbelievable. I thought he’d never die.”

“Me, too.” someone laughed. “I thought he made a pact with the devil and would live forever in exchange.”

More laughter. “Right! Remember, only the good die young.” More laughter.

“Wonder who’s going to get his office?”

“Wonder who’s enough of a ruthless bastard to fill his shoes?”

“Does Nikita know yet? Where is she anyway?”

“I dunno. Maybe on the Poe mission in Bolivia. She never goes on his missions anymore if she can help it. Hasn’t for years … not since she married O’Brien, anyway.”

“How long do we have to hang around, anyway?”

“We’re waiting for instructions from Operations.”

A tall operative joined the group and said, “Operations said to leave him here and let housekeeping take care of it. Let’s go.”

Michael watched as the assembled group moved away. He heard someone ask, “Do they bury the dead ops … give them a funeral?”

“Naw. We’re already dead. Besides … who’d go to HIS funeral? It’d be pointless. They just incinerate the bodies on level 9 … didn’t you know that? Maybe they’ll recycle his ashes in some compost heap …”

The conversation continued, but Michael wasn’t listening. Even though he did not know who the dead operative on the ground was, he felt a deep sense of pity for him, whoever he was. No one mourned his death … no one cared. In fact, they seemed almost glad that he was gone. He shook his head in regret, slightly surprised that he felt this way.

“Who was he?” he asked the spirit.

The spirit pointed to Michael’s left, and suddenly they were in Section headquarters -- in Operations’ perch. Madeline was there, along with Marco O’Brien, and Operations. “This is your chance, O’Brien. You’re third in command now. We have every confidence in you,” advised Operations.

O’Brien nodded and stated, “You won’t be disappointed.”

“That will be all,” said Operations in dismissal.

O’Brien nodded and left the room.

“It’s too bad he died. He was an excellent operative. One of our best,” offered Madeline.

“Yes. But he WAS an operative. A tool. A means to an end. Better than most. But expendable, like all the rest. We have O’Brien to replace him. We’ll be fine.”

Madeline nodded in agreement.

Operations asked, “Now … what is the latest intel on Poe mission?”

The two heads of Section conferred about the latest mission … the dead operative discarded and forgotten.

Michael shook his head, further saddened. “Who was he? Who was this poor bastard that no one mourns? Who served Section … for what? His life seemed to be meaningless.”

The silent figure in black pointed behind Michael. Michael turned around to see the Section morgue, with a single body lying on the steel gurney in the cold room. The body was covered in a white sheet, its bare feet sticking out.

Michael approached the shrouded body and lifted the sheet, to see … himself. Michael Samuelle. The dead operative no one mourned. Whose passing was unremarkable. Who would unceremoniously be cremated on level 9, his ashes dumped carelessly amongst the rubble, food for someone’s petunias.

The pain was agonizingly sharp.

He felt as if he had been punched in the gut. The pang in his chest was knife-like. Michael dropped to his knees and clutched his head, rocking back and forth, reeling from the implications of the visits of the spirits. His mental and physical anguish mixed together and made him acutely nauseated. He curled in a ball and started to retch.

All his sacrifices for the Section … for the greater good … seemed to be a waste. The hell of his life had been for naught. No one cared. No one mourned him. Nikita had married someone else. The agony was unbearable.

Dear God. Is this all my life means? Is this why I have sacrificed all my chances for personal happiness? This this why I am Section’s robot?

Michael turned and addressed the figure in black, “Please … help me. Answer me!” he pleaded. “Is this what will be, or just MIGHT be?” he begged. “Please,” he whispered. “Please.”

The dark spirit turned its head and did not answer. Michael clutched its black robe, desperate for a response to his agonized pleas. He pulled and pulled, and continued to beg the spirit, only to find …

************

…that he was pulling on his own bedcovers, back in his Section quarters.

He looked at his watch and saw that it was now 7:55 am. “Merde,” he thought. “How could I have slept so late? What day is it? Am I late for something?”

He hurriedly pulled on this black shirt, pants, and jacket, and stuffed his feet into shoes and socks. After a quick look in the mirror and 30 seconds of ablutions in the bathroom, he flew out of his quarters and into the Section common area.

A glance around showed Birkoff sitting at his computer console, and only a skeleton crew of operatives in the com area.

Michael strode up to Birkoff, and demanded, “What day is this?”

Birkoff stared at him in bewilderment. Michael repeated impatiently, “What day is it?”

“It’s Christmas Day, Michael. 8 am. I’m here just like you told me to be. Is everything alright?”

Michael ignored the question and said aloud, “I didn’t miss it. It happened all in one night. I need to find Nikita.” With this he turned and headed toward his office.

Birkoff stared at him in amazement, and called after the retreating figure, “What do you want me to do?”

“Go home, Birkoff,” Michael called over his shoulder.

“Go home?’” wondered Birkoff, shaking his head. “Unbelievable, but I’ll take it,” he thought with a grin, wondering if Gail was still curled up -- warm in her bed where he had left her an hour ago. “Guess I’ll go find out,” he thought, his smile growing wider.

Michael closed the door to his office, and glanced around. I wonder if any stores are open? I need to find something before I go to see her. With a small smile on his face he grabbed his long overcoat from his office chair and headed out of Section.

************

He knocked on apartment 412 and waited. Shifted from foot to foot. After a minute, Nikita opened the door, and asked, with a touch of consternation “Have you been trying to reach me? Do you need me to come in?”

Michael said nothing at first, but merely drank in the sight of her. The elegant blonde was wearing black pants and a black knit top that accentuated her shiny fair hair and beautiful body. Behind her, in the corner of her apartment, near the French doors, was the laden Christmas tree with the angel brushing the ceiling. The morning sun glistened against the array of ornaments.

“It’s not a mission. I just wanted to talk to you.”

‘’Bout what?”

“May I come in?”

“Of course.” She opened the door wider, and allowed him to enter. “What’s up?”

He stepped into the sunny apartment and she closed the door behind him. He slowly moved into the center of the living room, and looked around at the red and green candles placed around the room. They were all lighted, even though it was very early in the day. Their scent, along with the aroma from the fresh tree, made for a delightful fragrance to the room.

He turned to her and said, “I wanted to bring you this. And wish you a Merry Christmas.” Michael handed her a flat package wrapped in gold foil. She took the proffered gift, and stared at it.

“Thank you,” she stammered.

“Open it,” he requested.

Nikita pulled open the package and found that it contained a leather-bound copy of “A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens. She opened the front cover and was surprised to see the hand-written inscription,

“Christmas 1998” … it was signed “M”.

She was stunned, but managed to say, “Thank you. I’ve always loved this story, Michael.”

“Good.”

They looked each other silently for a few moments. Michael offered, “About last night …”

Nikita waited for him to continue.

He didn’t.

Instead he said, “Would you like to go for a walk?”

“A walk?”

“Yes. The snow has stopped, and it seems like a nice time for a walk.”

“Alright,” she agreed after a moment. “Let me get my coat.”

Nikita donned a hat, coat, and gloves, and stood next to the door. Michael opened it for her and Nikita locked it behind them. They silently took the elevator to the ground floor, and Nikita opened the door leading to the courtyard of the apartment building.

She smiled … astounded by the sight before her. At least eight inches of new snow covered the ground. It was twinkling and sparkling in the sunlight and was absolutely beautiful. Unmarred by foot and car traffic, it looked like Christmas in the country. Nikta sighed and turned to Michael with a delighted smile.

“It IS a nice time for a walk, Michael. Thank you.”

She tentatively reached up and placed her hand in the crook of his arm. She was rewarded by the feeling of him pressing her hand against his side to hold it there, between his arm and his body. He placed his other hand on top of hers and gently clasped it.

He turned toward her and started to speak. He had so much he wanted to say. He wanted to tell her about his dreams from the night before, and how sorry he was that he had missed spending Christmas Eve with her. He wanted to tell her that he loved her … and that he regretted so many things that had happened between them. He wanted to tell her that he didn’t want to live his life merely as Section’s robot … an expendable tool for the greater good.

He wanted to say all these things.

Words failed him, however, as he felt his throat begin to close up with emotion, and something that he recognized as fear. Fear at her response … fear at his own overwhelming feelings. He didn’t know where to begin. Perhaps his gift to her would explain how he was feeling, that … and showing her how he felt.

He leaned forward and gently kissed her soft temple, just below her silky hair, and said, “Merry Christmas, Nikita.” He gave her hand an extra squeeze.

She looked up at him, surprised, but also very pleased with his actions, and answered, “Merry Christmas, Michael.”

They looked at each other, at first thoughtfully, and then with a smile … first by Nikita, and then answered by Michael, as they silently indicated their pleasure in the moment. Then, pressing his arm slightly, she pulled him from the doorstep, and they headed off into the white wonderland for their walk, pressed against each other, their footsteps in synchronicity, feet crunching against the pure new snow.

THE END

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