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.

Outside, the church bells strike midnight — exactly on time.

Inside the café, the world softens around the edges. The espresso machine has gone quiet, its metal belly releasing one last sigh of steam. She wipes down the counter in slow, practiced circles. When she finishes, she pours herself a small mug from what remains in the pot — lukewarm, but still comforting — and brings it with her as she turns.

He’s still there.

Coat folded over the back of his chair, the sleeves of his blazer worn thin at the elbows, chalk dust or flour or some other pale powder clinging to the cuffs. His notebook lies open beside a half-finished cappuccino, the foam long since collapsed into faint rings. He looks up at the shift of movement — or perhaps at the weight of her gaze — and starts to gather his things in a gentle, apologetic flurry.

“You don’t have to rush,” she says. “I’m closing, but not throwing anyone out.”

He pauses, half-smiling, half-wincing.
“I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

“You’re not,” she replies, sipping from her mug. “You’re keeping the place company.”

The remark earns her a small smile — not quite shy, not quite confident, but warmer than the room had been a moment before. She walks to the back table and pulls the chessboard from the small bookshelf beside it.

“Stay,” she says, setting it down. “One game. I’ll even let you go first.”

He hesitates in the doorway between leaving and lingering — then rises, stretches, and joins her.

“I should warn you,” he says as he sits, “I tend to overthink my openings.”

“I work with caffeine for a living,” she replies. “Patience is a professional hazard.”

They begin in a hush broken only by the soft click of pieces meeting the board. She likes the way he studies the positions — eyes narrowed, mouth slightly open, as if listening for the logic rather than calculating it. She suspects he used to play piano, or perhaps still does.

Between moves, conversation emerges naturally: literature, mathematics, the best temperature for steaming milk, the yearly misery of daylight savings. He admits he always means to grade papers earlier, but ends up wandering the neighborhood instead — the mind needing air. She tells him she once majored in theatre before life demanded something steadier.

“Do you miss it?” he asks.

“Performing? Sometimes,” she says. “But a café’s not so different from a stage. There’s an audience. A rhythm. A script you can rewrite on the fly.”

“And what am I?” he asks, head tilted. “The critic?”

She shakes her head. “The recurring character.”

That earns her a fuller smile, bright enough to reveal the faint crease at the corner of his mouth.

When she finally checkmates him, he laughs softly, running a hand through his hair. “I teach logic, and yet…”

“Emotion trumps logic more often than not,” she says, beginning to gather the pieces.

But he reaches out — a light touch, just two fingers resting over her hand — and asks, “Another round?”

Her pulse flickers. “If I say yes, I’ll have to brew another pot.”

“Then yes,” he repeats.

Outside, snow begins to fall: hesitant flakes drifting past the windows, melting as soon as they touch the pavement. Inside, the air smells of cinnamon, espresso, and something newly awake.

Hours slip by unnoticed.
They play until the clock over the door insists it’s past two.

He helps her stack the chairs, fold the cloths, and set the alarm. At the door he lingers, breath blooming white in the cold.

“Same time next week?”

She nods, fingers tucked into her sleeves. “Bring your overthinking.”

He inclines his head, that amused glint returning. “And you bring the patience.”

The door closes behind him with a soft chime. She watches him retreat into the snow, coat collar turned up, shoulders curved like a thoughtful question. After a moment, she locks up, turns off the lights, and stands in the quiet warmth he’s left behind — a small ember glowing gently in the bones of the room.

When she finally steps outside, the bells begin again, slow and solemn. Midnight, or maybe something older.

And for once, she feels perfectly in time.

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.

They think she’s never on time.

Every year, someone laughs about it — her sister, a coworker, the neighbor who still calls her “kiddo” though she’s past forty.

“You’d be late to your own funeral,” they tease, and she smiles and shrugs and lets them believe it. Every Christmas, every birthday, there’s another clock: elegant wall pendulums, modern minimalist cubes, one shaped like a cat with eyes that swing in time with its tail. Her house ticks like a forest of mechanical crickets.

She doesn’t mind. The noise anchors her, reminds her where she is.

But they’re wrong, of course. She isn’t late — she just doesn’t stay in one version of now.

Time, for her, is elastic. Sometimes it stretches, gossamer-thin, like taffy pulled too far, and she can walk its length to touch the moment when her mother bent to kiss her scraped knee, or the instant she first realized she’d fallen in love. Other times it snaps tight and whips her forward, years ahead, where she sees a conversation that hasn’t happened yet, the face of a friend she hasn’t met.

When she was small, she thought everyone did this. She’d speak of something that “will have happened” next week and be scolded for talking nonsense. Eventually, she learned to keep quiet, to live as linearly as others expected — or at least to pretend.

The clocks help. They keep her tethered to their rhythm. But even that tether frays.

Last spring, she found herself walking home at dusk and stepped — only for an instant — into another version of the same street, where the houses were younger, trees sapling-thin, the air thick with the tang of woodsmoke. A child ran past her, laughing, and she caught a flash of her own face, eight years old and free of all the later weight. Then she blinked, and the world reset: streetlights humming, a grocery bag in her hand, the modern night reasserted.

She wonders sometimes what would happen if she stopped fighting it. If she let herself drift fully backward or forward and stayed. The idea tempts her — not escape, exactly, but alignment. She suspects Time wouldn’t mind the company.

Tonight, on Christmas Eve, her house is full of ticking. Every gift clock is wound and running, marking hours she doesn’t quite inhabit. She pours tea, sits among them, and feels the familiar shimmer begin — that soft stretch, the hum of a thousand parallel seconds brushing past.

One by one, the clocks fall silent. Not broken — merely pausing. In the hush, she hears it: the heartbeat beneath everything, the pulse of the world breathing.

She closes her eyes and lets go.

For a moment, she is everywhere — childhood, tomorrow, yesterday’s snowfall, next summer’s rain. She stands at the center of it all, a still point in a turning sphere, and Time — ancient, patient, amused — wraps her in its arms.

“You were never late,” it whispers. “You were simply elsewhere.”

When she opens her eyes, the clocks resume their ticking, each one perfectly synchronized.

And outside, the church bells strike midnight — exactly on time.