I am a sixty-two-year-old literature teacher, and for nearly four decades my life has followed a rhythm so familiar it has become invisible to me. My days are shaped by lesson plans scribbled in the margins of old notebooks, by essays stacked neatly on my desk, by the soft echo of footsteps in quiet hallways once the last bell rings. I drink my tea lukewarm more often than hot, forgetting it until it has cooled beside me. There is comfort in this routine, in knowing what tomorrow will look like before it arrives.

December has always carried a particular gentleness at school. The students are restless but softened by the season, their edges rounded by holiday lights and the promise of winter break. Every year, without fail, I assign the same project to my senior literature class: interview an older adult about their most meaningful holiday memory. It’s an exercise in listening, in empathy, in understanding that stories do not exist only on the page. I’ve read hundreds of these projects over the years, some clumsy, some surprisingly profound, each one offering a small glimpse into another life.