It was getting colder. He hated snow. He hated winter. And most of all, he hated Christmas.
He wheezed into his hand. He was an old man, and it didn’t help that it was so cold. As he sat down in a bench to rest, he looked around and saw not some beautiful scape, but a hateful, biting place. A populated desert, serving to bury him faster.
With looked up with a glare. “What is it?” he bit.
A blonde child looked at him with fear in his eyes. “S-sorry,” he said. Scrooge wasn’t; he’d lost his patience long ago. He waited for the boy to continue to speak.
Instead, he just stared. “What is it, boy, what do you want?” he snapped.
“You seemed lonely.”
Scrooge frowned. It wasn’t like humanity to care for him, some stranger off the street, for no reason at all. But it was known. “I’m fine,” he grumbled.
“Are you sure?”
His mouth tightened. “Why should you care?” he growled.
“Don’t I what?”
“Don’t you care if anyone cares about you? You should care. If it were me, I’d be terribly worried?
“Because that’s the worst feeling there is.”
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