Disclaimer: Harvest Moon is not mine, of course!

Note: Merry Christmas everyone! :) This is my Secret Santa gift for WinterOak. First off, I'm sorry I couldn't write about your preferred game, ANB – it hasn't been released in the UK yet, so I was pretty much stuck over that. I chose to write about A Wonderful Life, instead, which I hope is okay! I've split it into two chapters because I think it works better that way. Enjoy!

The Night Before Christmas

PART I

Forget-Me-Not Valley

Christmas Eve

Snow began to fall in the afternoon, the sky shifting from blue through grey to a thick, threatening white. At first, the flakes were light. They swirled and danced their way through the winter air. The wind began to rise as the day rapidly darkened. Night arrived early at this time of the year, and with it the snow grew heavier.

It was evenings like this that Flora regretted her decision to live in a tent. Usually she enjoyed the freedom of not being tied down to bills or mortgages. It was a casual, care-free life. Currently, she felt more aware than ever of her exposure to the elements. Stood on the threshold of the mine, her fingers wrapped around a flask of tea, she shivered.

Christmas Eve and she was all alone – unless that mad scientist guy came back with his damn camera. Her colleague, Carter, had left for the city to attend an archaeology conference several days ago. He wouldn't be back until the New Year. Flora didn't mind solitude – she liked to have time to herself, to think, and she'd never been one for festivities.

She listened to the wind whistling through the Valley, whipping the snow into a frenzy. In the distance, a horse and rider approached the nearby farm. Hooves clacked along the wooden bridge across the river. Flora squinted. It was Jack, she realised, riding close to Vesta's farm.

She watched him curiously, her head tilted slightly. She thought Jack would have had more sense than to ride in a snow storm. He looked lost, though of course he couldn't be. Forget-Me-Not Valley was the sort of place where everyone knew everyone else. Nobody was ever lost.

Flora stood silently for awhile, as Jack wheeled around on his horse. What was he doing? She tentatively raised an arm and called out. "Jack! Jack!"

Slowly, at the second time of yelling, his head turned. He grinned a little sheepishly, throwing up his own arm in greeting. "Oh, hi. Merry Christmas!"

"You too." Her hair caught the wind. She brushed it back from her face. "You'll catch your death, you know?"

Jack just laughed. "See you," he shouted, turning away across the snow.

Shaking her head, Flora treaded the frozen earth to where her tent was pitched and, forgetting Jack and his lunacy, ducked inside. She zipped the door up hurriedly. Wind buffeted the canvas, but the tent stayed strong and stable. She fiddled about in the gloom, lighting the gas lamp and making an optimistic attempt at tuning the portable radio. The reception crackled and roared, her ears filled with a rush of white noise. She turned it back off and climbed into her hooded sleeping bag.

Whether she enjoyed the festivities or not, Flora had to admit that going to bed at nine o'clock on Christmas Eve was quite depressing.

It wasn't until the next morning, as she crept tentatively into the weak dawn sunshine, that her mood changed. Only a couple metres from her tent, an object was glinting on the ground. She reached out a gloved hand and brushed aside the snow to reveal a small glass jar tied with a red ribbon. Flora's stomach gave a strange swoop when she realised that she might not have spotted it, half-buried there, if it wasn't for the scarlet ribbon stood starkly against the snow. A shiver more related to excitement than cold ran through her. Wiping her glasses on her jacket, she turned the jar over in her hands, examining it like a true archaeologist. It was a cooking ingredient; a jar full of rich, exotic spices. Actually, it was her favourite. Tucked beneath the ribbon was a hand written note:

Happy Christmas. I can only apologise for not having the courage to give you your gift in person.

Maybe next year?

Rock lay on his bed as listlessly as if it was an ordinary winter evening – and not Christmas Eve. The sweet smell of baking had been growing from downstairs all afternoon, until it filled his lungs and twisted his empty stomach.

Truth be told, he didn't feel very festive.

"Rock!" His mother, Ruby's, voice drifted up from the kitchen. "Rock, honey, are you coming down?"

"Later," he called back, but he knew he should head downstairs. There were mountains of things left to do: decorations to be hung, food to be cooked, dishes to be washed. Christmas wasn't the time for slacking. So Rock pushed himself off the bed, pulled on a garish striped sweater his mother had left for him and sloped downstairs yawning.

The smell that had been teasing him all afternoon turned out to be gingerbread; stacks of it, in all shapes – trees, stars and snowmen covered the kitchen counters.

His mother fixed him a sympathetic smile as he walked in. "Are you okay?" she asked.

Rock sighed. "Yeah. I'm not dying, mom."

"Good. Then you can help me out here." She handed him a dishcloth and nudged him in the direction of the sink which was piled high with dirty pots.

They worked in silence for a while, until Rock could hold it in no longer and burst out sullenly, "Why did she have to leave?"

He was painfully aware that he sounded like a teenager.

His mother's smile turned from gentle sympathy to real sadness. "Oh, Rock. I know you hoped Nami would stick around. We all did; she was one of the family! I don't think Nami ever liked Christmas very much, anyway."

But honestly? Rock had never cared for it, either. He was an only child who grew up in an Inn. Christmas was usually a boring day in which his parents worked their butts off for the strangers staying with them that year. Nami, though, was their longest staying guest and by no means a stranger – she was hardly a guest at all. For once, Rock had expected to spend the day with a friend.

Now she was gone and it would be just like any other Christmas.

Jack's feet were numb in his boots by the time he got back home to Moon Farm. He stabled his rather disgruntled horse, brushed the snow from his mane and threw fodder in the troughs. "Merry Christmas," he said jokingly. The cows continued swishing their tails, oblivious.

He realised he'd left the radio on as he approached the farmhouse; the faint strains of an old Christmas carol could be heard. It had to near midnight, nearly Christmas Day. The house was as dark and empty as when he'd left it. In the kitchen, lay the vegetables he'd been peeling for dinner with Tak tomorrow, but he told himself he'd finish them in the morning. Tiredness had crashed upon him in the wake of his mad ride into the snow storm.

It had changed nothing. He hadn't had the courage to so much as knock on the door.

Jack flung off his hat and slumped on the bed still fully clothed. Maybe next year he'd have sorted things with Celia. Maybe.

And Marlin would quit the overbearing act and Vesta might start to trust that he was a decent man that could provide for her. He knew Celia was frail. He knew they were simply trying to protect her.

Protecting her or not, it had lead to a lonely festive season for the pair of them. Jack glanced at the card on his bedside table. Celia had posted it through his letter box, but not lingered long enough to see him in person.

Hope you have a Merry Christmas, Jack.

I love you,

Celia.

Next year will be different.

Was it hopeful or bittersweet? Time would tell.