The Last Caroler

Thomas Green shuffled through the snow-laden streets on Christmas Eve, his weathered hands clutching a worn songbook. Each gust of wind seemed to whisper memories of better days, when his voice rang strong and clear through these very streets. Now, at seventy-eight, his once-resonant baritone had faded to a trembling whisper, but his determination to continue his decades-long tradition of caroling remained unshaken.

The town had changed. Where festive lights once turned night into day, darkness now reigned. Thomas adjusted his threadbare scarf, trying to ward off the chill that seemed to seep into his very bones. His modest flat, with its walls adorned with faded photographs, felt emptier with each passing year. The only companion to his solitude was the rhythmic tick-tock of an old grandfather clock, marking time’s relentless march.

He paused outside the Johnson’s home, traditionally his first stop. The house stood dark and silent, its windows like vacant eyes staring into the night. Mrs. Johnson, who had always greeted him with hot cocoa and a warm smile, was nowhere to be seen. An unexplained wave of illness had swept through the town this winter, leaving many homes empty and hearts heavy.

***

The evening grew colder as Thomas continued his route, his voice a thin thread of melody in the growing darkness. Each house remained silent, each street emptier than the last. Yet he sang on, his carols a defiant act against the encroaching gloom. It was all he had left – this connection to a tradition that had defined his life.

As the night deepened, Thomas found himself on an unfamiliar street. The houses here seemed older, their architecture speaking of a bygone era. At the end of the street stood a Victorian mansion, its presence both majestic and unsettling. Something about it called to him, drew him forward with an inexplicable pull.

The porch creaked beneath his feet as he approached the heavy wooden door. Before he could knock, it swung open, revealing a tall, elegantly dressed man with striking silver hair. His face bore the kind of wisdom that comes only with great age, though he moved with surprising grace.

“I heard you singing,” the man said, his voice carrying an odd accent Thomas couldn’t place. “Please, won’t you come in? It’s been… so long since I’ve had company on Christmas Eve.”

***

Thomas hesitated at the threshold. Something about the man’s eyes – deep, dark pools that seemed to hold centuries of loneliness – made him pause. Yet there was also a gentleness there, a yearning for connection that Thomas recognized all too well.

“I’m Thomas,” he said, stepping into the warmth of the house. “I’ve been caroling in this town for forty years, but I’ve never seen this street before.”

The interior was a museum of memories: ornate furniture draped in white sheets, walls lined with paintings whose subjects seemed to follow their movement, and a grand piano covered in a fine layer of dust. A single candle flickered on an antique side table, casting dancing shadows across the room.

“Please, call me Nicholas,” the man said, gesturing toward two high-backed chairs near a cold fireplace. “I’ve lived here… well, longer than I care to remember. Would you share a carol with me, Thomas?”

As Thomas settled into the chair, its velvet cushions surprisingly warm, Nicholas snapped his fingers. The fireplace suddenly blazed to life, filling the room with golden light and welcome heat. Thomas blinked, wondering if he had imagined the impossible gesture.

***

“Silent Night has always been my favorite,” Thomas said, opening his songbook. His voice, usually weak and trembling, grew stronger with each note. The melody seemed to fill the room with a tangible warmth, and as he sang, Thomas noticed something extraordinary – Nicholas was humming along, his deep voice adding rich harmonies that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

When the final note faded, Thomas saw tears glinting in Nicholas’s eyes. “You remind me of someone,” Nicholas said softly. “Someone who used to sing to me, long ago. I’ve been… waiting, you see. Waiting for the right person to share this night with.”

A strange heaviness settled over Thomas’s limbs. “Who are you, really?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Nicholas smiled, and in that moment, his appearance shifted like smoke in the wind. His elegant clothes became a flowing black robe, his silver hair a hood that cast shadows across features that were both ancient and timeless. “I think you know,” he said gently.

“Death,” Thomas breathed, but strangely, he felt no fear. “All those empty houses in town…”

“Yes,” Death nodded. “But tonight, I didn’t come for souls. Tonight, I came seeking company. Even Death gets lonely on Christmas Eve, Thomas. And your songs… they reminded me of the beauty that still exists in the world.”

***

Thomas leaned back in his chair, a lifetime of questions suddenly bubbling to the surface. “All these years of caroling… were you listening?”

Death’s smile was gentle, almost human. “Every year. Your voice brought comfort to so many souls, Thomas. Even those passing between worlds found peace in your carols. That’s why I chose tonight to finally meet you.”

The fire crackled softly, its warmth enveloping them like a comfortable blanket. For hours, they talked – Death sharing stories of centuries past, of other carolers who had touched souls in their own ways, and Thomas speaking of his life, his memories, his hopes.

As the clock struck midnight, marking the arrival of Christmas Day, Death rose from his chair. “Thank you, Thomas, for sharing this night with me. It’s been… more meaningful than you could know.”

“Will I see you again?” Thomas asked, surprised by how much he wanted to continue their conversation.

Death’s expression softened. “Yes, but not for many years yet. You still have songs to sing, Thomas. There are others who need your voice, your gift. And when the time comes…” He gestured to the piano, where sheet music had appeared, its pages seeming to glow with a soft light. “There’s always room in my choir for one more voice.”

***

Thomas left the mansion as the first light of Christmas morning painted the sky in gentle pinks and golds. When he looked back, the house was gone, leaving only unbroken snow where it had stood. But the warmth in his heart remained, and his voice, when he tested it, rang out clear and strong – as if rejuvenated by his extraordinary Christmas Eve companion.

In the years that followed, Thomas’s caroling took on a new dimension. He sang not just for the living but for those near death, bringing comfort to hospital rooms and hospices. And sometimes, in the corner of his eye, he would catch a glimpse of a tall figure in black, smiling and humming along.

When Thomas finally did join Death’s choir, many winters later, his voice blended perfectly with the ethereal harmonies of souls who had also spent their lives bringing joy through song. And every Christmas Eve, in a certain town, if you listen very carefully, you might hear two voices carrying the melody of Silent Night – one aged but strong, the other ancient and deep, bound together in an eternal duet.