I have a lifelong goal of writing my own book. The genre I have chosen is probably the hardest one I could imagine: a psychological thriller. You can imagine that it has been under construction for several years already — and will likely remain so for quite some time. However, I thought it would be nice to try writing a small spin-off story related to the theme.
For those who might be confused, a small warning: I really like using myself as the main character. The events of the story are, of course, fictional.
This was one of the most difficult posts I have written. Writing is not my strongest talent, and writing in English is even more challenging. I am also beginning to understand why editors are so important — you really do become blind to your own mistakes.
A Different Christmas Story
After a rough year, Anna was relieved that it was finally safe to spend Christmas with her family. The pandemic year had been unbearable in isolation, and the constant fuzziness in her head had only made it worse.
Now, though, she had a chance to rest. Christmas had always been her favourite celebration, and growing older had done nothing to dim the light in her eyes as Christmas Eve drew closer.
She had travelled by train to her hometown, wearing a mask as required by the government. Now she was kneeling in front of the Christmas decorations box. Since she had been put in charge of decorating once the cleaning was finished, she decided to see what she had to work with.
Christmas traditions mattered in her family; Anna knew that as she lifted the lid of the box with deliberate care. Cardboard rustled as she folded it back, revealing a tangle of ornaments. She picked one up at random, then another, her hands moving more confidently than she expected.
Some of the decorations were newer—candle holders, their glass still clear—but others were worn smooth with age. Near the bottom of the box lay a small brass bell, dulled with age. As she shifted the ornaments, it tipped and rang once—clear, sharp, then gone. Anna stilled, then dismissed it, already reaching for something else.
She lowered herself onto the floor without thinking, surrounded by familiar objects, and stayed there for a long while. The weight in her chest eased slightly, and she drew in a long breath she hadn’t noticed she was holding. She picked up the box and carried it into the living room, the echo of the bell lingering longer than it should have.
Christmas Eve dawned crisp and snowy. It felt like good fortune that Anna had remembered to bring her winter shoes, even though the forecast had promised milder weather. She walked towards the town centre with an unfamiliar lightness, buoyed by having slept unusually well the night before.
The Christmas lights, however, turned out not to be salvageable after all. After a brief, fruitless attempt to turn them on, she decided to go to the shop for a new set. The town was quiet—only a handful of people were out, likely those still working or those, like her, who had left something too late.
She was deep in her thoughts and didn’t notice the person in front of her until they collided.
“Oh—no, I’m so sorry,” she said at once.
The man turned to face her. Instead of the expected reassurance, he pressed a thick file into her hands and said, in a pronounced American accent, “You did not get these from me.” Before she could respond, he pushed the file more firmly against her, turned, and walked away, his dark, crisp coat swinging with his quick, precise steps.
Anna blinked. For a moment, the street felt oddly hollow, as if the sound had dropped out of it. She stared down at the file, then around her, but the man was already disappearing into the quiet town. “Wait!” she screamed, feet already starting to sprint after him, but he was faster; she could only see his retreating back, ignoring all her calls.
She slid the file into her backpack without opening it, her fingers clumsier than before.
Her heart was racing again, faster than it should have been. She had been calm only moments ago. Something about the man’s formal appearance left her feeling uneasy.
At home, she didn’t mention the file. She left her backpack in her old room without ceremony and joined her family. Only after a comfortable afternoon of sweets and decorating the Christmas tree did she finally go back upstairs.
Anna took the file from the bag and turned it over in her hands. It was grey and deliberately plain, made to reveal nothing. She slipped the rubber band free and opened it.
Inside was a small stack of photocopied pages. They had been arranged neatly enough, but the paper itself was skewed, the text slightly off-centre, as though the copies had been made in a hurry.
The pages were unmistakably official. A clean, carefully designed logo sat at the top of the first sheet: NeuronConnect.
She skimmed the text, then stopped.
Her name.
Her date of birth. Address. Medical identification numbers she recognised without remembering why. The page was dense with personal and clinical detail, all of it hers, all of it laid out with impersonal precision. A photograph was clipped to the corner—a neutral black-and-white portrait, her face expressionless against a blank background. Her hair was shorter in the image. Different enough to place it a few years back.
The next pages listed treatments. After that came a detailed log—dates, durations, observations—written in the same detached tone. The language was clinical, precise. It described not only highly specialised surgery, but a layered programme of psychological manipulation.
Memory suppression. Conditioning. Erasure.
The logs did not refer to her by name. Only by number.
A cold drop of sweat slid down her spine.
She read the pages again, more slowly this time. She did not remember any major medical procedures. No hospital stays. No recovery. Nothing that matched what was documented in her hands.
Someone had made a mistake.
Or someone had gone to an extraordinary effort to convince her of one.
She was closing the file when something at the bottom of the page caught her eye. A date in the footer.
November 2017.
Three years ago.
She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing her mind to reach for something—anything—but the memory refused to surface. The harder she pushed, the further it slipped away.
“Anna?” someone called from downstairs. “Dinner’s ready.”
She hid the file and left the room, a faint nausea rising as she went.
Dinner passed in fragments. Voices overlapped, cutlery clinked, someone laughed too loudly. She answered when spoken to and smiled when expected to. Afterwards, as was tradition, they settled in to watch a film together. Despite herself, she joined them.
She wished she could find the calm she’d felt earlier. It had been a relief—rare, unfamiliar. The film was light, distracting, but her body remained tense, coiled.
At the first advert break, she finally let out a long breath.
The screen changed. A familiar logo appeared: NeuronLink.
The advert opened with a single bell tone.
Anna froze.
Her body reacted before her mind could catch up. Her shoulders loosened. The tightness in her chest ebbed. Her thoughts thinned, then slipped quietly away.
Warmth spread through her limbs.
She felt safe.
Her lips curved into a small, placid smile.
It was Christmas.
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