She wrote the cards just as she had the previous year. She wrote them and carefully thought out each message; every word tailored to suit the person for whom the card was intended.
She wrote the cards and, once finished, placed them inside the pristine white envelopes that she'd already addressed with her neat, precise handwriting.
Sealing the final envelope, she rose from her place at the table and made her way over to the fire that was burning in the hearth. She gazed at the crackling flames, watching as they danced brightly, casting shadows around on the otherwise unlit walls.
She knelt down in front of the fire and one by one, let the cards fall; watching mesmerised as the fire claimed each one in turn - the crackling flames working their way across the surface of each envelope, turning the white to a charcoal black as the cards bent and curled under the heat.
She remained kneeling where she was until there was nothing remaining of the cards but a small pile of black ash. She watched as that too was lost as the logs on the fire shifted and the ash dropped down to the base of the grate.
"Merry Christmas," she whispered and rose to her feet, wondering briefly, if any of the intended recipients of the cards would have cause to think of her during their Christmas celebrations.
It was, Ruth decided, the worst time of the year to be apart from those that you cared for.