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Every December 25th, the streets are always filled with a warm atmosphere. Snow falls gently, colorful lights twinkle, and most families stay indoors by the fireplace or build snowmen in their yards.
Of course, the fire station also thoughtfully arranges holidays for its crew members. During this time, they usually choose to gather at the station—enjoying good food, watching ball games, playing cards... At least for the holidays, the crew can relax for a while.
"Hey! Merry Christmas, boys!" The captain slid smoothly down the brass pole.
"Merry Christmas!" the others responded.
While everyone was cheering, Montag was crouched on the floor tinkering with the Hound, fully absorbed in fitting parts together and completely unaware that the captain was slowly approaching from behind.
"Hey!" Beatty tapped his shoulder. "Still messing with the Hound?"
"Yes, sir," Montag nodded. "I’m trying to figure out the exact dimensions these parts need to fit perfectly into its body."
"That’s tough. It’s Christmas—why not relax, watch some TV, play cards? Don’t wear yourself out, Guy." Beatty glanced around, then slyly pulled out an elegant gift box from behind his back. A yellow ribbon was tied around the red box in a neat bow. "A Christmas gift! For my most hardworking subordinate who’s always looking out for the team!"
"Huh…?" Montag was momentarily stunned. He took the gift box from Beatty’s hand in surprise. "Thank you… sir." Montag hooked his fingers under the edge of the box and lifted it slightly, letting light seep inside. Just as he was about to peek, Beatty, standing beside him, snapped it shut in the blink of an eye.
"Wait until we all open gifts together!"
"Alright," Montag turned back to the Hound. Beatty remained standing behind him.
"Did you catch the game?"
"No, sir. Why?" Montag glanced back but kept working with his hands.
"Nothing, just making conversation."
The rest of the crew buzzed with noise, but the atmosphere between Beatty and Montag felt icy, as if nothing could penetrate it—only the sound of parts being adjusted lingered between them. That is, until Black strode over from across the room.
"What are you two doing here? Everyone’s ready to open gifts."
"Just playing Santa for him," Beatty said, his gaze fixed on Montag, a faint smile curling at the corners of his mouth.
"Sir, how about doing me a favor and playing Santa for your humble subordinate too?"
"I wouldn’t mind being your Krampus instead."
"Krampus?" Black scratched his head. "Uh, what’s that?"
"He’s also a kind of Santa…" Beatty paused for a long moment. "Just the opposite kind. Like it?"
Hearing that, Black’s face fell immediately, looking crestfallen. "Oh, come on, sir—"
Montag, still crouching nearby, couldn’t help but chuckle.
"Alright, let’s go open gifts," Beatty motioned for Montag to follow him to the main hall with the gift box. The sounds of the ball game and card games blended together, lively as a party.
Some received candies. "We’re not kids anymore—who gives candy for Christmas?"
Others got bottles of liquor. "How about a drink?"
"Your turn, Guy." Everyone’s eyes turned to him, and Montag finally got to see what was inside the box. He bent down, cradling the gift box in his arms, and peered inside carefully. The gift seemed quite bulky. Montag reached in to feel around.
Square…
Feels a bit rough? It felt strangely familiar.
His fingers lightly brushed over it… Could this be…? An uneasy feeling sprouted in Montag’s heart.
………………
………………
Is this a book?
It is a book—he couldn’t mistake it. But why would the captain give him this? What was he trying to say?
"Don’t drag it out, Montag," someone in the crowd shouted. "Yeah, come on—let us see!"
"It’s just a little thing," Montag said, turning to the captain with a complicated expression. "Thank you. I… like this gift."
"Surprised enough, Guy?"
"So surprised I’m at a loss for words, sir."
"My pleasure," Beatty took off his cap and placed it over his chest, bowing slightly. Meanwhile, the crew around Montag grew restless, itching to snatch the box as if it held some rare treasure and they were hunters on a quest.
"Stop staring at the box. It’s just some important parts for the Hound—the special kind. Satisfied?"
"Then why don’t you show us?"
"Because I don’t want to, alright? You’ll see how it works once it’s installed on the Hound."
"How boring," the crowd dispersed in a huff. Montag hugged the box and walked up to the captain. "Sir, could we talk privately for a moment?"
"Of course."
They went straight to the captain’s office—a perfect place for a private conversation, undisturbed for now. Montag got straight to the point. He shook the book out of the box, and it thudded heavily onto the floor.
"This is the surprise!? A book? You know I’m a fireman, right?" The barrage of questions came abruptly, but Beatty seemed unfazed, even putting on a disappointed expression. He bent down and picked up the book.
It was a copy of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.
"Treating my carefully chosen gift like this… that really hurts," he said, dusting off the cover. "I thought you’d like it."
"Is this some kind of test? Are you trying to burn me!?" Montag paced in the limited space, agitated, angry, and confused.
"I just wanted to give you a gift. It’s quite traditional, isn’t it?" He flipped through a few pages, scanning the text, then closed the book. "Don’t you find it funny? Scrooge goes from a miser to someone who starts pondering the meaning of life, becomes charitable, kind, and benevolent. A man’s entire mindset changed by three ghosts—but in real life, we don’t have Christmas ghosts. These descriptions are so naive and cute, yet laughably stupid." Beatty’s lips twisted into a mocking smile, but no mocking laughter escaped. Instead, what seeped through was a sense of bitterness.
"That doesn’t explain why you gave me this book. A book—you know I’m a fireman. Giving me this is no different from pushing me into a pit of fire!" Montag clenched his fists, his voice hoarse with anger.
"Don’t misunderstand me," Beatty lit a cigarette. "Your anger and fear right now prove your mind is still working normally. But I’m curious about one thing… Are you afraid of the book I gave you, or the uncertainty this book represents?" He exhaled smoke.
"The laughter outside is so noisy. Think, Guy, think! We pick up flamethrowers and burn books. Books know why they’re burned—because they’re sinful, because they bring rebellious thoughts, corrupt society, trap people in the mire of depression. They even make you anxious, paranoid. It’s terrible!" Beatty leaned back in his chair, placed A Christmas Carol on the table, and pushed it toward Montag.
"Captain, past, present, and future… Are you hoping I’ll encounter those ghosts and glimpse my own past through this, or the opposite—that I’ll look back at your past through this book?" Montag leaned forward, bracing his hands on the edge of the table, his gaze intense as he stared at the captain. Then he looked at the book’s cover, his index finger gently tracing the embossed, gilded title.
"I don’t seek so-called redemption. But I’ll give you a chance—read this book, Guy. See if it contains clichéd life philosophies, so-called redemption, or nothing at all. Or… you can choose to throw it into the furnace. The choice is yours. I didn’t mean to harm you, nor do I care to redeem you. But on this Christmas night, while everyone exchanges hollow, mechanical blessings, I’d rather see the ripples a stone makes when thrown into still water."
Beatty took one last drag of his cigarette and flicked it into the ashtray. "Alright, you’re probably tired of my rambling. Go on out, Montag. Go relax for a while." Montag didn’t say anything more. He simply placed the book back into the box and carried it out.
Beatty listened to the sounds outside the door for a long time. He opened a drawer, pulled out a box of matches, and lit one. The flame leaped, flickered, burning itself relentlessly. It slowly crept down, glowing red. Beatty watched silently as the fire consumed the entire matchstick, not letting go even when it scorched his fingertips… until finally, he walked out.
Only the blackened matchstick remained on the table.