December 8th

(To read this story from the beginning, click here.)


The first time I became conscious of Klink I was three-years old, nearly four (due to an impending January birthday).

I remember we were at my grandparent’s house in the evening. It was one of those golden nights: the tree sparkling the way it only does in memory, the house dressed up in pinecones and ribbons. It had the scent of a forest, a cinnamon forest.

On this particular evening I had been granted a rare wish: a full two-days before Christmas, I was allowed to open a single present from under the tree.

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