It was cold, the December snow slowly falling and creating a thick blanket on the pavements and road. Many houses already had Christmas decorations up in their windows and outside in the gardens; it gave a pleasant feeling to anyone who walked by. A particular house, however, had barely any decor up.
The house itself was rather large, an attic room window peeking out at the top of the roof. The windows were all either completely dark or had their black curtains shut; all windows except for one. The attic room window was lit up and had a small snowman hanging from the sill.
Inside that attic room was a bed, desk, bookshelf, dresser and nightstand. It was a simple yet homely little accommodation. There was a small gas lamp lit, it sat on the desk, and a boy, with dark locks hanging down behind his back and just after his shoulders, was sat at the desk. He had was holding a fountain pen and had a few sheets of paper laid out before him. Some of them had writing, others were bare.
The boy looked no older then eighteen, yet his eyes had a glint in them as if they had seen a lifetime. His eyes were deep and dark and seemed like they would suck you into a void of you stared into them for too long. He moved his hand to the top of his page and started to scrawl something in the thick ink. 'December 20th, Entry 175'. He ran his frail, slender fingers through his messy black hair and looked out of the window. He smiled at the falling snow and sat back in his chair. He enjoyed Christmas time.
The door to his room suddenly opened and a white- haired old man poked his head inside. He gave a large smile to the jet haired boy, who turned his head to look at the door at the noise of its hinges squeaking open. The way he was sat in his chair made this all the more difficult, his legs that were tucked up to his cheats were forced to lean to the side to support his weight on one side of his body.
"Your dinner is ready," said the old man in a soft voice that would have sent you straight to sleep if he was singing a lullaby. "It's on the kitchen counter, that's if you want it now." The jet haired boy gave a hum of acknowledgment.
"Yes, I will get it later. I'm not feeling very appetitive." he replied, turning around and pushing his own and paper away. The old man gave a sort of noise that sounded like 'Okay then.' and walked away, closing the door behind him. The boy got up and shuffled over to the door, taking a chain from around his neck from under his shirt. It had a silver key attached to the end. He crouched before the lock of the door, inserted the key and turned it; the door creaked and made a loud click. He got up and replaced the key under his shirt, shuffling over to his window and shutting the curtains.
The boy flopped into his bed and and stares at the ceiling for about two or three seconds before sitting up and throwing his legs over the edge of his bed, getting up and walking over to his desk. He collected the papers that were scattered across the wood and put them into a neat pile, pulling out the desk drawer and placing them inside. He closed the drawer and then turned out the gas lamp. The room was plunged into darkness and the only noise was the boy shuffling back to bed and getting under the covers.