On twelfth night, the house had the tired air of something ready to be forgotten. Elliot packed Christmas away the way he’d lived it: quickly, inattentively, eyes drifting down to his phone even as his hands worked. The tree stood half-undressed in the corner, branches naked where ornaments had been plucked, lights still humming faintly as if reluctant to let go. Cardboard boxes yawned open on the floor, labeled in black marker LIGHTS, ORNAMENTS, MISC.

He scrolled while he worked. News, messages, nothing urgent only his internal fear of missing out. Funnily wasn't a fear of missing out on conversation with the people around him, it was always about what was going on online. In his phone.

It was only when he bent to unplug the lights that he saw it.

A small present sat beneath the tree, exactly where it had been on Christmas morning. No bigger than his fist. Wrapped in paper the color of old snow. Tied with a red bow drawn impossibly tight. No tag.

Elliot frowned. He was certain everything had been opened. He was certain because he had photographed it all. He nudged the box with his foot. It did not slide. He picked it up and found it to be warm.

“That’s new,” he said, though the room offered no reply.
He tugged at the bow. It would not loosen. The ribbon dug into his fingers, smooth and unyielding, as though it had no beginning or end. Elliot searched for scissors, patting his pockets, glancing at the sideboard.

They weren’t there.

He tried tearing the paper. It resisted, not ripping, not stretching, simply refusing. The warmth intensified, pulsing now, faint but unmistakable. A heartbeat.

His phone buzzed in his hand, though he did not remember touching it.

CHRISTMAS IS OVER, the screen read, and your PRESENCE IS OVERDUE. Now It's time for you to be Present.

Elliot swallowed. “Very funny,” he said, to no one. Not that old line again about being being in my phone too much’ he chuckled ‘ everyone is these days it's just how it is’ the smirk fell from his face when he realised that the message wasn't from his mother.

The tree lights flickered. Shadows lengthened along the walls, stretching unnaturally, converging toward the box. The television screen, dark and unplugged, filled with reflections moments playing without sound.

Elliot as a boy on a stage, squinting into the crowd.

A woman blowing out candles alone.

A hospital room at night, machines blinking patiently beside his grandmother.

In every reflection, Elliot appeared only as a pale glow, a bowed head, a scrolling thumb.

The box trembled.

The bow began to move not loosening, but winding inward, consuming itself, disappearing into the knot. The paper slid away soundlessly, folding in on itself like it had been waiting for permission.

Inside the box was nothing.

No, less than nothing. An absence so complete it bent the air around it. Elliot leaned closer, against his will, and felt pressure behind his eyes, behind his chest. Regret with weight, time with teeth.

The nothing took shape. A hollow silhouette rose from the box, unmistakably his own.

PRESENCE REQUIRED, the phone chimed.

“No,” Elliot whispered, stepping back. His heel struck an ornament box. Glass shattered, sharp and final.

The room tilted. The hollow shape advanced. Elliot raised his phone instinctively, as if it could shield him. It slipped from his grip, pulled forward, vanishing into the box as though it had always belonged there.

The lights went dark.

When they came back on, Elliot was on the floor, breath shallow, heart racing. The tree stood bare. The room was quiet.

Beneath the branches sat the smallest present, wrapped and perfect, bow tight as ever.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway, neighbors, voices, the world reshaping itself. Someone called his name. “ looks like he's not here”

Elliot tried to answer.

Nothing came out.

Under the tree, on the night Christmas finally ended, the present waited, warm, humming, and no longer empty.

The End