Chrismas (almost) alone

Clara's Christmas Escape

Clara hated Christmas. Or rather, she hated this Christmas. It all started on December 1st, a day she would have preferred to erase from her calendar. Lucas, her boyfriend of three years, had invited her to their usual café — the one where they'd first met. She'd imagined he was planning a surprise: maybe a romantic getaway, or perhaps... a proposal? She had even worn a red dress, festive without being too flashy.

But instead of a ring, Lucas handed her a breakup, wrapped up in empty phrases:

— Clara, I've been thinking... I think we're on different paths. I need some time to find myself.

Clara, stunned, shot back with sarcasm she hadn't even known she was capable of:

— Funny, because I never lost you.

But Lucas didn't laugh. He left, leaving Clara alone with a hot chocolate she hadn't ordered.

The days that followed were even worse. Christmas lights glittered in the streets, ads showed happy families everywhere, and even the office Christmas playlist seemed to conspire against her. She was alone now. As if that wasn't enough, her mother called on December 3rd to talk about the preparations for the big family dinner:

— You're coming with Lucas, of course? Everyone can't wait to see him again!

Clara mumbled an evasive answer before quickly hanging up, pretending to have a meeting. No way was she enduring another Christmas listening to her cousin Camille brag about her perfect children, or her Uncle Georges telling questionable jokes while waiting for dessert.

Christmas in Clara's family had always followed the same routine:

1. The chaotic arrival: an avalanche of coats, scarves, and yelling, with children running in every direction.
2. The soup of memories: her mom pulling out photo albums to tell the same embarrassing story about Clara from kindergarten.
3. The interrogation: "So Clara, still at your little job?" (Little job?! I'm a journalist, thank you) followed by the classic: "And Lucas, is he going to propose soon?"
4. The never-ending dinner: too many courses, too much wine, and that chestnut cake no one ever really liked.

She loved her family, but this year... it was too much. She needed a solid excuse to escape the madness.

— Well, Mom, she lied on the phone a few days later, my boss asked me to cover a special report... I have to go. Yes, to the mountains!

Her mom sighed, disappointed but convinced. Clara felt guilty but... relieved.

And now, here she was: in a rented car, braving an icy road to reach the chalet she had found on a last-minute rental website. The robotic voice of the GPS interrupted her thoughts: "Turn right and continue on the winding road."

She obeyed, but her mood darkened as she saw the path ahead: barely cleared, it twisted between snow-covered pine trees. Clara muttered:

— Of course. It would've been too much to ask for a sleigh driver, right?

The tires slipped slightly. She grimaced. Maybe I should've read the instructions for the chains... but it's too late now.

An hour later, she finally reached her destination, only to have a final surprise: her car got stuck in a ditch just in front of the chalet. Exhausted, Clara abandoned the vehicle and trudged through the snow to the door.

The chalet was exactly as shown in the photos: a cozy wooden house with red shutters and a fireplace that promised warmth. Clara opened the door wide, inhaling the scent of wood and pine. She dropped her suitcase and murmured:

— Finally alone.

She turned on a few lights, lit the fireplace, and poured herself a glass of red wine. Settling on the couch, she started unpacking. Far from her family, far from awkward questions, far from Lucas... She finally felt like she could breathe.

Until a loud noise at the door made her jump.

A tall, imposing man stood in the doorway. He wore a ski jacket, a hat that had definitely seen better days, and an expression that was half curious, half exasperated.

— Who are you? he asked bluntly.

Clara, caught off guard, snapped:

— Me? But... who are you to ask me that?

The man raised a set of keys with a theatrical sigh.

— I'm Louis. The owner of this chalet.