Note: I made a list of prompts, and wrote a bite-sized story for each one. They don’t live in the same universe, but they’re all a little off-kilter from what you might expect from holiday fare. And if you pay attention, you’ll notice that the last line of each story becomes the first line of the next. Also? You can listen to these stories at my podcast website: BathtubMermaid.com.
The night felt different now—larger somehow, full of places for wonder to hide.
The overhead announcement crackled as if it had traveled a long way to reach them. All outgoing flights have been canceled. Not delayed. Not rerouted. Canceled. Outside the tall terminal windows, snow moved sideways in thick, luminous sheets, swallowing the runway lights faster than they could blink back on. The weather service was already issuing apologies.
Most passengers groaned and surged toward the customer-service desk. She went the other direction—toward the quiet corner of the terminal where the airport bar spilled into a lounge lined with club chairs and a fake fireplace flickering in its little glass box.
The bartender spotted her and lifted his chin in greeting. “You look like someone who needs a chair and something warm.”
“You’re not wrong,” she said.
“Grab a seat by the ‘fire.’ I’ll bring it over.”
The club chairs were arranged in loose circles, like the airport wanted strangers to believe they could be friends. When the next few stranded passengers trickled in, they drifted into her circle almost by instinct: a businessman already shrugging off defeat with a sigh; two college students wrapped in scarves big enough to be blankets; a tired mother carrying a baby who slept with his cheek pressed to her shoulder.
Then there was the man in the vintage flight jacket—leather worn smooth, patches stitched by hand, real metal zipper with a pull tab that looked older than her father. He eased into the chair nearest the fake fireplace, warming his palms over nothing.
The bartender arrived with mugs of hot cocoa. Real cocoa. He made a point of telling them so.
“Storm’s throwing its weight around,” he said. “You’re welcome to wait it out here.”
“Better here than gate C17,” the businessman muttered. “Pretty sure a family of raccoons lives there.”
The students snorted. The bartender winked.
The mother rocked the baby gently. “He’ll wake up any minute. He always wakes up when the pressure drops.”
“Hand him here,” said one of the students—unexpectedly gentle. “My little cousins love me.”
The mother hesitated only long enough to check the student’s grip, then passed the baby over. He blinked awake, then settled into her arms like he’d made a decision.
“Wow,” the mother whispered. “That never happens.”
The man in the flight jacket smiled. “Babies know who to trust.”
His voice had a warm, radio-static softness, the kind you only heard in old recordings.
The businessman leaned forward, curious despite himself. “You sound like you flew professionally.”
“For a long time,” the man said.
“What’d you fly?”
“Oh, whatever needed flying.” He gave a small shrug, as if the details were unimportant. “Cargo. Rescue. The odd emergency route on Christmas Eve.”
“Christmas Eve?” the student holding the baby asked. “Like… weathering storms?”
“Like whatever came through the air that night,” he said, eyes glinting.
Everyone laughed, but he didn’t.
As the storm worsened, the lounge grew warmer. People took turns holding the baby, who seemed to enjoy the rotation. The students played peekaboo. The businessman—awkward at first—held him like he was handling a fragile instrument, and to everyone’s surprise, the baby gurgled at him.
“See?” the bartender called from behind the counter. “He’s judging your aura. You passed.”
They talked in little bursts.
Where they were headed.
How long they’d been traveling.
Who they were hoping to see.
“First Christmas without my sister,” the businessman admitted quietly.
“I get that,” said the mother, adjusting the baby’s hat. “Holidays get complicated.”
“Storms too,” the man in the flight jacket added, almost to himself.
A gust rattled the terminal windows. Snow swirled outside, thick and bright.
“Well,” the bartender said, refilling their mugs, “looks like you’re all stuck till morning. Cozy up.”
They did.
Surprisingly easily.
Hours passed.
The fake fireplace hummed; the baby slept across someone’s knees; conversation rose and fell like tidewater.
It felt like a room suspended outside of time.
Then, a little before dawn, the man in the flight jacket stood.
“Storm’s easing off,” he said, glancing toward the windows.
Everyone turned. The snow had thinned to drifting flakes. The runway lights flickered hazily back to life.
“Will you catch a flight out?” the mother asked.
He smiled, pulling a cap from his jacket pocket—a cap that hadn’t been there before. “Flights aren’t really my concern tonight.”
He nodded once to the group—almost a bow—and walked down the corridor.
Not hurried.
Not lingering.
Just… leaving.
She blinked, and he was gone.
The bartender collected the empty mugs, smiling knowingly. “Some folks pass through exactly when they’re needed.”
The intercom crackled.
A gate agent cleared her throat.
People stirred.
The storm had passed, but the warmth in the circle of chairs lingered like an afterimage.