Owain Pritchett struck a match, and the crumpled newspaper beneath the coal caught, flames curling over the black diamonds. A dented tin pan of chestnuts waited beside him; he hadn’t roasted any in years. This year, he was determined to do everything right.

Rime etched the window as Owain hobbled out for more coal. The snow crackled beneath his slippers, and Jack Frost nipped his nose, as it did when he was a child. Back then, he would linger outside in the chill air until his mother’s warm voice called him indoors.

Inside, the house was quiet except for the burble of the radio in the kitchen. A community choir sang a carol he recognised before he could give it a name, just as if his mother’s humming tucked itself amongst the harmonies.