A.N. Hey all! So, my English teacher asked us a while ago to write something on how we fealt about Ebenezer Scrooge, and that it could take any format we wished. I obviously chose a short story. I wasn't going to publish it, but ThatOneFan made me a cover art, and I feel like publishing a story to celebrate, and the story that I would have published still isn't finished.

He passes by every day, at the exact same time. He is a creature of habit, Mr Ebenezer Scrooge. He walks down Cobbler's Lane at 8:07 each morning. He stops at my bakery to buy a small loaf of bread for his lunch, and then leaves without a word. We have a strange relationship, him and I. He is not like my other customers. He does not regale me with the exploits of his family (if he has one), or boast of his business ventures. In return, I never offer my suggestions on a different loaf of bread to buy, nor do I slip him a small treat like I do with my other regulars. I know that if I did, he would view my kindness with suspicion, and would likely stop coming to my bakery all-together. And that I cannot allow—after all, who would watch over that poor man if I could not?

I know that I am one of the few people in this miserable city who feels anything but fear and horror for this old man. I have heard them in the streets; the poor workers, the wretched orphans and the sly thieves.

"That's Ebenezer Scrooge," they say to each other. "I hear that he makes his employee work all year round—even Christmas. I've never seen him smile, have you? I hear that the devil went personally to collect Scrooge's soul, but thought that Scrooge was spreading enough misery around that the devil left Scrooge here to help with his job. Don't get too close. Don't catch his eye." And the man is forced to walk past the gossipers every day, head high and eyes only looking at the road ahead. And people wonder why I care for him?

I know I have no business in my attempts to care for this poor man. I am not his mother, nor his sister, nor even a friend (if he has any of those either). I am only a quiet shop-keeper, one who he only says five words to over the course of the day ("One small loaf of rye") and one who replies with three words ("Two shillings, please"). We cannot even be called acquaintances. And yet I see more in him than any one of the other people standing in the street. I see the pain in his eyes as the children flinch away from him. I see the longing on his face in the briefest of moments when he sees a pair of young lovers embrace in the streets. And I see his emotions shut down each time the beggars in the street huddle further into their corners when he approaches.

He will not accept comfort from me, nor charity. So I do what little I can. I scold the young children for mocking him; I make sure to give him my freshest loaf of bread. And on those hard days, when the whispering is louder than ever, or he feels unwell without anyone to tend to him, I try to catch his eye with a smile. That smile, in particular, says all that I cannot say to him.

"Don't mind them," the smile says. "They only judge what is in front of them; they only believe what interests them. It may be that behind closed doors, you are a simple man who just doesn't understand the ways of the world. It doesn't matter anyways. I won't judge you either way. When life gets rough, you have sanctuary in my bakery. Just hold on. We'll get through it together."