Jacob hated Christmas. There was no other way to put it. The holiday had long since lost its luster, suffocated by the weight of personal grief and years of emotional baggage. It wasn't just the decorations or the festive music—it was the idea of Christmas, the forced cheer that never quite reached his heart. The holiday had become a reminder of all that was lost, a harsh spotlight on his emptiness.
But there was one thing, one small sliver of solace in the madness that was December: volunteering at the local hospital. The sterile, clinical environment of the ward offered no pretense, no obligation to fake happiness. It was just the work—helping people who needed help, offering small gestures of kindness. Hospitals decorated for Christmas, but sparingly. A wreath here, a garland there, but nothing overwhelming. Just enough to acknowledge the season without drowning everyone in it. For Jacob, that was all he needed. It was the one place where he could breathe.
It was December 21st when Brinch came into Jacob's life, and even before the man's name reached Jacob's ears, there was something about him—something undeniable.
Brinch arrived in a wheelchair, pushed into the hospital lobby by a nurse. At first glance, he didn't look like anyone special. A tall man, his features hidden behind a haggard look, his clothes loosely fitting, his posture slumped as though the weight of the world were pressed onto his shoulders. His face was drawn, pinched with pain—pain that went beyond just the physical. But then there was his color. Brinch wasn't like anyone Jacob had ever seen. He was... blue. A deep, oceanic blue, like the sky at twilight, streaked with undertones of indigo and cobalt. His skin was mottled, almost like he was part of the sea itself—a living, breathing painting of blues, from the rich hues of his arms to the subtle shading of his face.
At first, Jacob wondered if he was seeing things. But no. The man was undeniably blue, his skin an unnatural shade, as though the color had seeped deep into his pores, affecting everything—his flesh, his veins, his very bones. His eyes were a pale, watery green, sickly and sunken, rimmed with dark circles, and his hair was a tangled mess of seaweed-like strands that clung to his scalp in a way that suggested he hadn't bothered with it in a long time.
The most unsettling thing about Brinch, though, wasn't the unusual color of his skin. It was the way he held himself. His entire body seemed to be in a constant state of flux, as though every movement was an effort, every breath a struggle. His hands gripped his knees tightly, knuckles white from the pressure, as though he was holding something back—something dark, something that threatened to spill out if he didn't keep it contained.
Jacob watched him, drawn to the rawness in the man's expression, a quiet sorrow that seemed to resonate with something deep inside him. The hospital was busy, filled with the usual bustle of people coming and going, but Brinch stood apart. Even in his silence, there was an air about him that pulled at Jacob's instincts. He couldn't shake the feeling that this man was different from everyone else, that he carried a burden far heavier than the simple ache in his knees or back.
As the nurse wheeled him past, Brinch's eyes flickered up toward Jacob. It wasn't a glance—it was a stare, direct and searching, as if the blue-skinned man could see straight into his soul. For a moment, Jacob's breath caught in his throat. There was something in that gaze, something urgent. It wasn't just pain; it was a plea for understanding, for connection. It was a look Jacob knew all too well—the same one he saw in his own reflection when he thought no one was watching.
"Hey," Jacob said softly, stepping toward the wheelchair. The words felt awkward on his tongue, but there was no turning back now. "You alright?"
Brinch didn't answer immediately. His eyes dropped to his hands, still gripping his knees so tightly his fingers seemed to tremble. There was an almost imperceptible flinch in his posture when Jacob addressed him, as though being spoken to caused some kind of disturbance in his world. His lips parted, but no words came out. He was silent for a moment too long, and Jacob thought maybe he wouldn't speak at all.
But then Brinch exhaled—a ragged, painful sound—and his voice, when it finally came, was rough, like gravel scraping over stone. "I don't know." He paused, as though the very act of speaking was a burden. "I don't know what to feel anymore."
Jacob crouched down, trying not to crowd him, not wanting to intrude on the space Brinch seemed to be guarding so carefully. "You don't have to know," Jacob said quietly. "You don't have to feel anything you're not ready to."
Brinch's eyes flickered up again, this time focusing on Jacob's face, his gaze softening for a brief second. "Christmas," he muttered, barely audible. "I can't... It's too much. I... I don't know how to deal with it." He clenched his jaw, his whole body tensing. The blue skin on his face rippled with the strain. "It's too much, you know?"
Jacob nodded, his heart twisting. He'd heard those words before—too much—and he knew exactly what Brinch meant. Christmas had a way of magnifying the hurt, the loneliness, the grief. For some, it was a time of joy. For others, it was a reminder of everything that was missing. Jacob had spent enough Christmases alone, with only the echoes of better times to keep him company. He knew what it felt like to wish the entire world would just shut up for a moment.
"You don't have to pretend it's alright," Jacob said softly, his voice steady. "You don't have to do what everyone else expects you to do."
Brinch's eyes narrowed, as though he wasn't quite sure how to respond. His fingers twitched, the tension in his hands so sharp that Jacob could see the blue veins standing out starkly beneath his skin. He wanted to say more, wanted to press deeper, but something in Brinch's demeanor told him that now wasn't the time. Sometimes, you couldn't help someone just by talking to them. Sometimes, the only thing you could offer was silence.
Jacob stood, taking a step back. "Whenever you're ready to talk, I'll be here," he said quietly, his voice softer than before.
Brinch's head tilted slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if considering the offer. The silence that followed was thick, but not uncomfortable. There was a strange understanding between them, a moment where two broken souls seemed to recognize each other's pain.
"I... maybe," Brinch muttered, the words hanging in the air.
Jacob gave him a small, understanding nod. Then, with a final glance, he turned to walk away, but not without a lingering sense that something was unfolding. Something important.
As he moved back into the busy ward, the weight of the holiday season pressed down on him again—its bright lights, its fake joy, its endless noise. But now, there was a small part of him that felt lighter. Brinch, the man in the wheelchair, with his blue skin and the burden of sorrow so deep it was almost tangible, had offered something Jacob had never expected to find: a reminder that, even in the darkest of seasons, there were still places where people could connect.
And that, perhaps, was enough.
