Page 2 of Where Light Cannot Follow

I grab my briefcase and head towards the door. "We cannot control the future, Ms. Hernandez. We can only make educated predictions based on data, which I doubt you've bothered to analyze properly. If your mother's condition is truly as dire as you claim, then logic dictates prioritization. Yet here you stand, wasting time at a work holiday party instead of maximizing whatever precious hours remain with her. Your actions and your words tell different stories, which am I to believe?"

Her brows stitch together, eyes flaring. She puffs up, words bursting from her. "Because, sir,”—and there is a firmness in the title that almost makes me proud of her—"you said we could meet at seven."

"I did, and you disregarded that request. You arrived at 7:09 and have now squandered precisely nineteen minutes of my time, first with tardiness, then with personal matters that bear no relevance to this firm. Regarding your mother, I lack sufficient data to predict her mortality timeline. Regarding your employment, however, I can speak with certainty: if you fail to appear tomorrow, punctual and prepared, it will be your final Christmas with this firm. Good evening, Ms. Hernandez."

As I step into the hallway, the overhead lights flicker once, twice, a brief dance of shadow and light that no one else seems to notice. For just a moment, the corridor seems to stretch impossibly long before me, and the sound of my footsteps echoes as if in a vast, empty chamber rather than a carpeted hallway. My heart stutters off beat. It is the kind of sign I dismiss entirely—a trick of fatigue, nothing more. Reality snaps back into place, and I continue toward the elevator.

The sleet outside bites into my skin with more precision than I'd anticipated. I adjust the collar of my wool coat with a fluid motion, a defense against both the elements and the invisible pathogens that tourists—drawn to the spectacle of New York at Christmas—invariably carry with them.

The streets are overcrowded. Even here in the financial district, where the only seasonal offerings are oversized red bulbs in the fountain and standard illuminated deer and decorated trees. Nothing one couldn't find in any unremarkable town across the country.

I exhale a cloud of contempt and begin my four-block journey to my building. I’m now twenty-two minutes behind schedule. By the time I change for my workout and reach the gym, I'll have lost nearly half an hour. Thirty minutes that will bleed into either reduced sleep or sacrificed reading time for the financial papers I subscribe to, both valuable commodities.

"Merry Christmas, sir!" A woman calls out, her bell punctuating the rumble of traffic and murmur of the crowd with metallic persistence. She ceases her ringing and steps toward me. Her cheeks and nose glow pink against the cold, yet she smiles with the fervor of someone who’d just closed the deal of a lifetime. "You look like a man open to an opportunity to discover the generosity of the holiday spirit."

"Making assumptions about others is inappropriate."

Her smile only widens. "I meant it as a compliment."

"It was not received as such. I do not subscribe to spirits of any variety, particularly not this ridiculous holiday that costs the working professional hundreds of productive hours and tens of millions of dollars annually."

Something drains from her expression, and she glances around, as if searching for allies. Unfortunately for her, this isn't a democratic proceeding. She has addressed me directly. She will receive my direct response.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. I'm just collecting donations for children who will go without this holiday season."

"Perhaps that's something their parents should consider. Why aren't they standing here ringing bells in the cold for their offspring?"

All warmth vanishes from her face. For a moment, she offers no reply, and the multicolored lights in the window behind her pulse in rhythmic silence.

"I'm not in a position to judge anyone's circumstances." She draws the bell closer to her heart like a talisman. "I'm simply trying to do what good I can."

"Well, I will judge. People shouldn't create children they cannot afford or won't properly care for. You'll note my absence of the creatures."

Her expression hardens, absorbing my tone and judgment the same as the frost crystallizing on glass. "Sounds like your nonexistent kids really dodged a bullet, huh?"

The words hang in the cold air between us. I could respond. I choose not to. Some arguments aren’t worth winning because the opponent isn’t worth engaging. I return my gloved hands to my pockets and continue my march homeward, the seconds ticking away with each precise footfall.

Reaching my building, the doorman bows his head. "Mr. Dante."

A perfunctory nod, and I'm through the door into warmth and silence. The lobby stretches before me—black marble, muted lighting, the distant murmur of a piano. My private elevator alcove waits at the far end.

I swipe my card, press the button.

Nothing.

The elevator doors remain closed. The hush of the room is almost complete. Another flicker echoes through the space, another ignored tremor in the universe around me.

I disregard it as nothing more than my growing headache making my eyesight unreliable. Too many inconveniences for one day. Why do I pay exorbitant fees for the penthouse if they can't even keep the place maintained? I turn on my heel and head back out to the main lobby where a man—Arnold? Amir? Something with an A—wears a crimson tie with a pinned sprig of fir and winter berries for a boutonniere.

"Mr. Dante. A Merry Christmas to you, sir."

"My elevator is out."

His gaze drops, and he fusses with his glasses. "Ah, yes. We had a storm earlier. It seems electricity is out in part of the building, but we do have the main elevator working up to the 40th floor."

I stare at this man who, despite his neat appearance and unwrinkled outfit, is materializing more and more like a shrug in human form.

"My apartment is on the 55th floor."