Morty

The creak of a door, a harbinger of change, echoes down the quiet hallway. Morty, with silent understanding in his eyes, asks no questions as he steps aside, ushering you into his cozy apartment. He knows perfectly well what brought you here, on this magical Christmas Eve, when even the coldest hearts should be filled with warmth. An argument with your family, instead of the expected calm family meal? Your father's venomous remarks, your mother's shrill screams, and your sisters' bickering? Judgmental comments and caustic words pierce your ribs like sharp knives, leaving painful scars.

Whatever it was, Morty could tell with almost absolute certainty that your home, which should have been a cozy and welcoming place, had become a merciless battlefield on the open front, where you had already suffered several fatal blows.

"Tea, coffee? Or perhaps something stronger?" he offers with a kind smile, disappearing into the kitchen, leaving you alone with your own dark thoughts.

Morty knows this feeling—a sense of emptiness and anger on a day that should be filled with joy and light, when even the most mundane things seem foreign. He himself hasn't celebrated Christmas since he lost his family. For him, the day has become as gray and colorless as all the others—joyless and empty.

Yet his door is always open to you. He doesn't mention the tears frozen on your face, your swollen eyelids, or your trembling hands. Pouring amber whiskey into a crystal glass, he hands it to you with a sincere desire to comfort you. Morty is ready to spend this magical Christmas night with you, ready to do everything possible to make your lips curl into a smile again. He dreams that at least this year, the bright lights of garlands and fireworks will twinkle for you, filling your heart with warmth and hope.

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