Ebenezer Scrooge sat alone in his counting-house, the coals in the grate burned low, and the December fog pressed against the windows like a beggar’s face. In his hand he held a delicate porcelain cup—a gift from some long-forgotten business associate. It contained a modest portion of Earl Grey tea, its steam rising like the ghost of a better mood.
He sniffed it, frowned, and took a reluctant sip.
“Frivolous beverage,” he muttered, as though the bergamot itself had personally affronted him. “Tea with perfume! Bah!”
Outside, faint laughter drifted from the street—carolers, no doubt. Their voices rose in some merry tune about goodwill and joy, words that struck Scrooge as both wasteful and insincere.
He set the cup down with a clink. “Christmas cheer,” he grumbled. “Every year, they drown in it like fools in a punch bowl. Singing, smiling, spending money they haven’t got! If only they’d brew some sense instead of sentiment.”
The clock ticked. A coal popped. The tea cooled.
For a moment, Scrooge regarded the steam’s last tendrils curling away into the air. Something in it reminded him of the Ghost of Christmas Past—its shape fleeting, its warmth vanishing. He brushed the thought aside with a huff and took another sip, though it had turned bitter.
“Earl Grey,” he said aloud. “Named after some nobleman, no doubt. Nobility and nonsense—go hand in hand, they do.”
Yet, as he drank the dregs, a small, unwilling sigh escaped him. The faint aroma lingered—citrus and memory intertwined—and for the briefest moment, Ebenezer Scrooge felt something that was not quite cheer, but not quite disdain either.
He frowned again to be rid of it, rose from his chair, and declared to the empty room, “Tea or no tea, I’ll have no more of this Christmas foolishness!”
Later that night as he turned down the lamp and the darkness crept in, the faintest smile flickered across his face—quick as a spark in the ashes—before it vanished entirely.
