Gold noticed her, despite the throbbing crowd. Her smile, framed by gentle brown curls, was more illuminating that the celebratory fireworks overhead. He'd been thinking about her a lot over recently. Not by choice. Her scent was on the pages of that beautifully bound and exceptionally precious book, and her kindness radiated from it with every closing chapter. Her presence had haunted him like a ghost this holiday season, which was probably fitting for a man reading A Christmas Carol.

Belle spotted him and waved enthusiastically. She pointed to her hand, which was clasped with another. That twerp Charlie must have finally won her affection with foam hearts and an unhygienic beard. Gold simply nodded his head to acknowledge her and refocused his attention on the mob forming on the his road.

Gold usually hated the fact that the road outside his house was one of just a few, whose neighbours still gathered to hold hands, sing, and wish each other a "Happy New Year". The only other time of year Gold saw his neighbours communicate was during the semi-frequent arguments about whose car was parked in front of whose drive. They seemed willing put their automobile-altercations aside for the sake of a few beers and a chorus of Aulde Lang Syne.

The song was one he knew well from his childhood. A tune from the highlands where he had been raised, but he hadn't had much call to sing it for many years and felt no desire to sing it now. He turned to go back into his house, and bring in the New Year the same way he brought in every year; with a good book and a strong stout.

A dainty hand caught his wrist.

'You can't go yet, Mr Gold' the owner said. He didn't need to turnaround to know who spoke. It wasn't just the delicate touch or lilting accent that gave Belle away. It was that there wasn't another person in the entire world who would have even noticed that he was leaving the celebration.

'I'm tired,' he sighed, pulling away from her as gently as he could.

'You can't be tired,' she laughed. She looked brighter and happier than he'd ever seen her before. Perhaps it was Beardy's influence, though perhaps it the influence of the complicated cocktail she was sipping on. 'It isn't even midnight. Come on,' she grabbed his hand, and pulled him towards the crowd. 'Come on.'

He simply couldn't resist. Belle found them a place, next to Charlie. Charlie greeted him with a sloppy handshake and an overly-enthusiastic:

'Mr Goooold! How is my favourite, old recluse? Happy New Year, bro.'

Gold responded, with a cold:

'Good evening, Charlie.'

'Hey,' Charlie slurred, putting his arm around Belle and using her as a resting post. 'Aren't you going to congratulate us?' He pressed a sloppy, beardy kiss to her cheek. 'It's our one week anniversary.'

'A one week anniversary?'

'Yeah, Belle called me up on Christmas Day and we haven't looked back since.' He seemed pleased (and drunk), she seemed hesitant (and drunk).

'That's lovely,' he scorned, 'but I meant that an anniversary, by definition, cannot be for a week.'

It was probably being unnecessarily cold, but Gold felt unjustly hostile towards this bearded imbecile, with his ridiculous selection of facial-hair patterned shirts. Tonight's monstrous clothing was adorned with differently styled moustaches.

Irony was in every follicle of Beardy's being, and that seemed to make him "cool". Gold struggled to understand this. To him, doing something ironically was a terrible reason to do it. If you like coffee and reading, you go to the library-cum-coffee shop. If you don't really like either, go somewhere else. To Gold, being ironically cool required an unfathomable twist on logic and these complicated irony-buffs had been ruining his favourite place for years. And now, one of them was draping themselves around Belle! Naturally, he was most angry about the coffee shop, but he also felt Belle deserved better.

Gold was turning as bitter as his favoured Java coffee … until:

'He sounds like you, babe,' Charlie snorted, nudging Belle with his nose. 'She's always correcting me like that' – he did a horrible imitation of her accent – "an anniversary happens yearly".' Then Charlie put up a hand between Belle and himself, as though protecting her from what he was about to say: 'I'll tell you a secret Mr. Gold. I could care less about the exact definition of "anniversary".'

'So you care a little.'

'Huh?'

'Don't confuse him,' Belle chuckled, gently lowering her week-long lover's hand, and resting her head on his broad shoulder. 'He's had too many Buds to understand.'

Gold felt it would probably take a lot more than sobriety for Beardy to understand, but there was no need to talk the man down to Belle. After all, she seemed happy, perhaps he was the Prince Charming she so desired and certainly deserved.

'TEN!' someone from the crowd yelled, signalling the countdown.

'It's time,' Belle beamed, taking Gold's hand in hers.

'Nine!'

The whole crowd was joining in, and a circle had started to form.

'Eight!'

Strangers were sharing drinks with strangers.

'Seven!'

Neighbours were hugging like brothers.

'Six!'

Belle still hadn't let go of his hand.

'Five!'

She beamed up at him.

'Four!'

She was the most beautiful person he'd ever seen.

'Three!'

Gold had a flash of inspiration. He would kiss her. At midnight. Like the handsome stranger and the heroine had in her burned book.

'Two!'

It made sense. It was why she was running her thumb over his knuckles. It was why she hadn't let him go home. It was why she was still smiling at him.

'One!'

Gold felt Belle's hand slip away from his own and she turned into Charlie's embrace, their lips meeting in a sloppy mess.

Gold staggered backwards. He felt as though he'd taken a bullet to the chest, the pain snatching his breath away. He leant heavily on his cane; he'd have collapsed without it. He made his way through the throbbing, cheering crowd. He was desperate to reach his house. People were bumping him from all sides. One guy accidentally kicked Gold's cane away as part of a frantic dance. The man just about caught Gold before he fell to the ground.

'Sorry, mate,' he chuckled, once Gold was returned upright.

'Quite alright, dearie,' Gold seethed through his teeth. He didn't have the energy to wield his clout in the city over the man's head and bury him under threats of joblessness, homelessness and general hopelessness. On any other night, he might have done, but not now. He just wanted to be free of the crowd. He needed freedom from the images that were searing into his brain. He craved the safety of his empty house.

'Let me get you a drink, to say sorry' the stranger insisted, slapping Gold heartily on the back. 'Gotta bring the year in right.'

'Not necessary,' he waved his hand, and continued his dogged attempts to reach his home.

'Well, Happy New Year then,' the man called after him. From the cheer of the crowd, he'd resumed his bizarre Irish jig. In Gold's experience, it was impossible for any celebration to pass without a drunken man with Irish roots doing a jig of some kind.

People were hugging Gold as he shoved his way between friends and families, others ruffled his hair or patted him on the back, all shouted:

'Happy New Year.'

It didn't feel happy, and although the year might technically have been new, nothing actually was new. Everything was exactly as it had always been. He returned to the same house he'd always owned, plagued by the same ghosts he still couldn't shake, and the same rumours he was tired of running from.

Outside the whizzing, fizzing and banging signalled the beginning of the firework display. There were whoops and cheers from the appreciative crowd. Gold just slid slowly to the cold, wooden floor, until his knees folded up to his chest.

This was the loneliest he had ever felt.