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December 23rd

The young lady sat with her chin on fist, the firelight shining off her dark hair. She was reflective but not pensive, content in her solitude on this cold evening. A log in the old stone fireplace snapped and crackled and there was the smell of pine in the air. Her father’s old dog lay asleep at her feet, gently snoring; the sound comforting. Two days to Christmas and she’d spend it alone for the first time.

From the opening paragraph of The Aspen Trail

Matthew Brighton, 1965