Read Once Upon a December: A Holiday Short Story Collection for Free Online

dated for two years. After we graduated and found jobs—me with the family practice and Megan with a downtown firm specializing in real estate law—I decided there was nothing I wanted more than to ask her to be my wife.
    But even that had taken some negotiating.
    The first time I proposed, Megan threw the five-carat wedding ring at my head and told me to get a grip on reality.
    Mom still laughs about that one.
    To this day, I’m not satisfied with the modest stone that has rested on her hand for the past three years, but she loves it, and I love her, so I deal.
    I tighten my scarf around my neck and continue down the icy sidewalk. While my wife loves to shop for everyone else, she isn't as forthcoming when it comes to her own Christmas list, which usually translates to me buying something outrageously expensive she forces me to return the very next day.
    But it’s Christmas Eve, and I am officially out of time.
    Desperate for a sign, I scan the brightly-lit windows hoping inspiration will strike. Everything is twinkling and beautiful, but there’s nothing hanging in the windows that she’ll love.
    I stop when a bookstore window catches my eye. There on display is a set of children's books. With a deep sigh, I slowly scan the titles, recognizing many of them from the bookshelf in our nursery. Back in June, we had been ecstatic to learn that we were pregnant, and the very first thing we bought was a bookshelf. Megan is thrifty with everything except books, and she had filled the bookcase with hundreds of children's stories.
    Then we miscarried, and the nursery and all the books inside it remain untouched to this day.
    There’s only one thing in the world Megan truly wants. The one thing money can’t buy.
    A little me.
    A little her.
    A little us.
    The doctor's explanation of “sometimes these things just happen” didn't satisfy either of us, but the fear of losing a baby is still so raw and suffocating that Megan won’t even discuss trying again. The doctor gave us the green light, but it’s now six months later and she still isn't willing to try.
    I really want to try.
    I pull my jacket closer and make my away around the corner to find a tiny crowd gathered just outside the coffee shop. A guitar player and carolers sing “Silent Night,” and when the song ends, the little audience erupts in applause. Some of the spectators drop money into the open guitar case on the sidewalk. I’m just reaching for my wallet when someone grabs my arm.
    “Do you hear drums?”
    I turn and find myself face-to-face with a man. Homeless, I assume from his appearance. He’s dressed in a tattered coat and looks desperately in need of a bath. I try not to cringe as he tugs on my designer suit.
    “The drums,” he says again, his voice forceful. “Do you hear them?”
    Drums? All I see is a guitar player.
    “No. Sorry. I don’t hear a drum.”
    I turn to walk away when he tightens his grip on my arm.
    “Listen, son. Just listen.”
    Sighing tiredly, I play along and pretend to listen. The city is deafening on any given night, but especially so on Christmas Eve. The city is filled with noise. Busy shoppers. Impatient drivers. People yelling. Horns honking.
    Still, I listen. And that’s when I hear it.
    Rum pum pum pum.
    It’s faint, but it’s there. A quiet, rhythmic beat that blends into the night. How this old man heard the sound is beyond me.
    “You hear it, don’t you?”
    With a nod, I look around, hoping to find the source of the sound. The man points toward the coffee shop’s covered alleyway.
    “Back there,” he says.
    The carolers begin their rendition of “O Holy Night,” and once again, I hear the “rum pum pum pum” coming from the darkness.
    Intrigued, I step away from the old man and walk slowly toward the alley. Each step brings me closer to the beat, until finally, I see a little boy, nestled in the corner. His only light comes from a lantern, and a snare drum rests in his lap. The drum is scarred and