Seth Morrison was a lonely man. He walked home from work three blocks away at a tall office building where nobody knew anybody unless required to harangue a certain amount of data from another in order to finish their job. He wore neatly tailored suits but lived in a cheap little apartment because he had once shared that apartment with Marta, his pretty little wife, who had died four years before.
Every Christmas after Marta had been lonely. But this Christmas was lonelier than all of them.