I rustle my hair as my head lifts from the smooth pillow, I can feel the marks left from a restful night, a night that only comes after a few sinful sips. I rub the exhaustion from my eyes and feel the tightness in my temples, a hangover. The one true indicador that I've allowed myself something I'm not meant to have, it was the only thing that could stop me from doing what's been rattling around in my brain since I saw them.

Since I saw the puff of smoke surround those lips.

Since I saw the miniscule boots shuffle across those creaky boards.

Since I saw the fire seeping through to touch the amber waves.

Since I saw the opalescent jade that mirrors my own.

Since I saw her.

The magnifying pull she possesses, it gives me no choice but to step past my pride and into her light. The light that's been flickering on and off each time I've been allowed into her presence, each time it's fizzled out by stomping feet and furrowed brows.

Even a flash of light guides me through the dark that I've naturally found myself in, tipping back bottles at a time in search of something I've eternally lost. The light pulls me from out of the woods and back into the worn vinyl chair and warm air of Darcy's bookstore.

I'm going to find a way to turn the light back on, I just have to think of a way to light the match.

I stumble over various empty bottles, ones formally filled to the brim with liquid courage or in my case liquid comfort. The burn that once coated my throat and left my organs filled with fire is the only constant source of warmth I've discovered.

Soles step over chilled copse onto tinted tile, hands fumbling through a limited medicine cabinet to find capsules to cure the ache in my head. I throw them back and tilt my head under the faucet, washing them down with tepid water.

My foggy mind carries my tired bones to the kitchenette's refrigerator, I dig through the various boxes of takeaway to find nothing of sustenance. I slam the door shut, rattling the ice box. I reach up into the cupboard to grab a mug and place it on the table, reaching for the ancient coffee machine and pulling the pot from the plate. I step up to the sink, my eyes blinking slowly as the weight of the glass increases. The grounds are dumped into the filter and the water boils before spilling into the pot, the smell of rich coffee filling the air.

Sunshine bringing light in through the window casts shadows onto the ground and shines light onto the old record player on my nightstand. That identical magnetic pull drags me over to it, setting the needle onto the vinyl and trumpets blast out through the speakers. I crash my hands over my ears and groan out before bringing my fingers to turn the volume dial. The low hum of 'Someday' by Louis Armstrong reverberates through the room and I feel my muscles relax.

I cast the emptied liquor under my bed and shuffle back to the pot of coffee. I glance down at the time stated on the stove, 9:03. I down the mug and tug on a pair of tattered sweatpants and jumper, shoving trainers onto my feet and pushing my hair back in a fruitless attempt to keep the curls from remaining in their inherently irritating position across my forehead.

I slip the keys off their hook by the front door and rush down the rusted metal staircase to turn to the front of the store. The frigid air nips at my nose and fingertips as I twist the key in its hole.

I wander behind the desk and pull the match from its leaning position against the hidden interior corner. The match that's going to bring back the light, Sinatra.

The sight of the technicolor crooner lifts the tension from behind my eyes and the ache from my temples. I pull it close to my chest and mumble out quiet lyrics as I find myself walking to the back area in search of the proper matchbox.

'You make me smile with my heart,' tumble from my lips as I pass the other pasteled covers of her beloved melodies.

'But don't change your hair for me, not if you care for me,' spills from my chest as I dig through packing supplies for anything to envelope her choice choruses.

'But, oh, my heart grew active, when you came into view,' falls out into the air as I tape the folded paper together.

'I will feel a glow, just thinking of you,' brushes across my tongue as I scratch out shoddily drawn suns and script out the endearment I've so carelessly found myself calling out to her by, 'Sunshine.'

'And I need I say that my love's misspent, misspent with angel eyes tonight,' steams out into the frigid air as my trainers crunch against the iced over sidewalk.

'In spite of a warning voice that comes in the night, and repeats how it yells in my ear,' slips through my chattering teeth as the match in its box is leant against the siding of the quaint home that houses my light.

'When you're not around, I'm lonely as I can be,' pulls my lips into a frown as my shivering muscles skip debris off of my path.

I close out the concert in which I'm dually the audience and the artist as I ascend the stairs on the border and step through the threshold of loneliness. I strip the clothes from my body and twist the nozzle within the shower to spew boiling water in hopes to rid my pores of the traces of intoxication.

I pull my toothbrush from the counter and spread a thick layer of the minty substance across the bristles. I step into the shower and grimace as the scorching lava pours down my skin, bringing the brush to my mouth.

I stand washing the previous night's transgressions going down the drain, my soul praying to be washed clean. I'm brought back to the taste of spirits consuming my gut and drowsiness pulling on my eyes, I question how much longer I can hide my fall from grace before I'm forced into an undesired safety net.

My pruned fingerprints cut the water off and place the polisher back on the sink. The collation of mint and moonshine swirl around my tongue, unable to erase the crushing guilt in my heart.

I rummage through my limited clothing to find a muted brown patterned button down and distressed black jeans. A cross chain wraps around my neck and settles to rest against my chest next to my love muscle. Black boots hit the wooden floor below my feet as I drag a towel through my hair.

My eyes check the time again to find that several hours have passed. The time elapses as my fingertips peel back pages upon pages of musical knowledge, the brilliant minds of musicians spread across worn pages in faded ink.

Weak knocks rapt my door ahead of the frail voice, "Your grandfather is setting up the tree downstairs, are you going to be joining us?"

I toss the book down as I rise from my bed and step over to turn the handle to be greeted with the sight of my grandmother. Her small figure coddled in a bulking coat as her teeth chatter in the form of a smile. "I'm coming down now."

The descent down the stairs is voiceless until our feet hit the pavement, "Harry," my grandmother's voice froths of betrayal, "Our arrangement was that you'd leave your habits in the past. Your grandfather is not nearly as forgiving as I am, you can't keep disobeying his orders."

The indication of inebriation seen in the dark circles below my eyes and slowness of my movements. The escape from England was dependent on my ability to discontinue my drinking, I have yet to go a day without it but within the prior night's moonlight I'd been unable to salvage my dignity as I drank away my sorrows.

"Yes ma'am."

I hold the door open into her store and she steps through with a kind nod and I step inside behind her.

My grandfather stands on a stepstool stringing lights across the tops of the walls, uses large thumb tacks pushed into the wall to maintain their position. A fragrant tree stands absent of ornaments amidst the bins of CDs and vinyls. A large cardboard box overflowing with hand painted ornaments and a vintage angel rests atop.

"Look who decided to celebrate with us." He sings out without turning back to look at me.

My grandmother steps over to the box and pulls the angel out to rest onto a table as she digs through the box to find strings of tinsel. "Harry, would you help me decorate the tree please?"

I step over to her and begin pulling out containers of ornaments from the cardboard box and onto the floor. She continues to string the silver tinsel onto the lush evergreen branches and mumbles out Christmas tunes that stream out of the radiobox on the counter.

Once she finishes placing and replacing the tinsel until she deems it perfect she steps back and hands me the angel, "Place that on top, dear?"

I wrap my hands around the base of the angel to ordain the top of the tree with its peaceful face and holy halo. My grandmother taps my shoulder and gives an approving nod. Her caring crows feet around her eyes and selfless smile lines bring forth a beam of joy in my chest. She has always been a steady source of sympathy within my life, her coddling disposition both her biggest strength and weakness.

My grandfather steps down from the stepstool and plugs the lights into the wall, an assortment of colors sparkle across the borders of the store. "Dorthea, darling, is this alright?"

She saunters over to him and presses a gentle kiss to his cheek and wraps her arms around his neck, "Beautifully done, beau."

I grasp at the first carton of ornaments to find each one to be a laminated paper design with abstract streaks of color and dog stickers on one side with the other being an elementary signature and date, my name written out with poor motor skills and a cursive date perfectly written below it.

Each ornament I take out has some significance to my life, one with the date of my grandparents wedding anniversary, a photograph of my parents in an elegant emerald frame, a blue ornament that reads, 'IT'S A BOY!', and an ornate angel ornament with my mother's name engraved onto the chest.

My grandparents and I sliding the ribbons of the ornaments onto the branches to display them alongside the needles of the pine tree. Each package of ornaments is met with a new song that sings the praises of God or declares a love for the events we hold on Christ's birth.

My grandparents disappear from their places on their stools to walk back into the storage area of the store for a moment. Whilst they're gone I dig through the desk to find the gifts I'd previously hidden there.

My grandmother is to receive a locket with my mother's picture on one side, a graduation photo from highschool, and a photo of my grandparents at their wedding on the other. My mother was their angel, their only child. She was their source of pride in this life, she did everything with little effort but executed them exquisitely, she was naturally gifted in nearly every asset. Her one illogical pursuit was that of my father, the man she spent the last fifteen years of her life with.

My grandfather is to receive a pocket watch that mirrors my grandmother's locket, an identical picture of my mother inside along with their wedding photo behind the watchface. His admiration for my mother was even louder than my grandmother's, he was her biggest cheerleader in everything she did. I'm ashamed that I'm all that's left of her memory.

A shaky exhale leaves my nose as the gifts of my mother's remembrance are laid to rest under the pine scented bark and sentimental baubles. I lift my head at the noises of my grandparents' return and stand to my feet, rubbing the heels of my palms against my sockets in an attempt to shield the devastation seeping from my eyes.

They turn around the shelves and my grandfather stands holding a white Fender Telecaster with my grandmother struggling to maintain her grip on golden wood Gibson ES-350T. Their smiles shine brightly as I stand in shock with my hands shuffling between running through my hair and hitting the sides of my legs.

"Who's guitars are those?" I ask dumbfounded.

My grandfather steps forward with a look of sheer jubilant glee and holds out the guitar for me to take, "They're yours."

"No," I reject as I take the guitar into my hands, "I can't accept these."

My grandmother places the guitar she brought forward onto a stand and leaning forward and accepting my grandfather's hold on her waist, "You need an outlet, you deserve the resources to sharpen your skills."

They exchange a knowing look and nod before returning their sights to me plucking tentatively at the strings of this cherished guitar. I strum the strings and slide my fingertips up and down the neck and imagine all of the refrains that would echo off the walls.

My mother taught me to play every instrument I know how to play--the piano, the guitar, the trumpet--she's the origin of my poorly hidden passion for music. My childhood was filled with music-- personal icons like Armstrong and Joel, boundary breakers like Bowie and Mercury, lovesick crooners like Sinatra and Anka. She showed me the impact music has on our world, how much of our lives are reflected through song. Music is the universal unifier, the constant persuader to come together and celebrate--celebrate victories and defeats alike.

I place the Fender in my hands onto a paired stand next to the Gibson. I rush to reach down and grab their presents from below the bottom limbs of the tree. "I got you each something."

They each take the minute boxes into their wrinkled and worn hands and tug at the tape. My grandfather holds the golden pocket watch in his palm before pulling it open to bring his hand over his chest in treasure, "Thank you, son."

My grandmother stifles a cry as she looks longingly at the photos in the silver locket, the pad of her index finger brushing over the faces of her loved one's inside. "Harry Edward Styles, you've just broken my heart. This is beautiful."

A blatantly discomforted smile spreads across my face, a lump in my throat forming from the inability to accept the praise being poured down on me. My maternal grandparents were my saving grace these past few months, saving me from a life of wandering binges. I've yet to be able to properly thank them and any form of care they've given me, including the verbal and tangible praise, which has only pulled me further into the pit of guilt.

"Son, test out your gifts," my grandfather suggests, his expression showing his acknowledgement of my perturbation.

I pull a wooden stool to rest under my arm and take it with me to the back of the store, the footsteps on my grandparents following behind me. I step back to the stand and pull the Gibson from its resting place on the short black stand and plug it into the speaker, adjusting the volume to match the soft tone of the song I know my grandmother adores.

I strum the strings, tuning them as I go. I settle onto the stool and hum a few lyrics slowly to refresh my memory before beginning the long-loved tune of my grandmother.

'I'll be home for Christmas. You can plan on me. Please have snow and mistletoe, and presents by the tree." I husk out as I pick the strings and glide my fingers on the neck.

My grandmother's glistening eyes only become more glossy as her lips curl into a wide grin, my grandfather wrapping his hand to rest on her shoulder and pull her close. Their proximity only strengthens the fondness they hold in regard for one another.

A fondness that built this business and allowed it to endure any struggle it faced. A fondness more enchanting than any string of lyrics or piano piece. A fondness that only makes the cover art of each album more vibrant. A fondness that raised a perfect daughter. A fondness that was willing to suffer to salvage a shattered soul in hopes of reviving the memory of his mother.

"I'll be home for Christmas. If only in my dreams," the guitar fades out as my voice settles to a silent hush.

My grandmother claps graciously as she wraps her arms around me, peppering my head with applauding kisses. I shrink into myself at the action and pat her shoulder hesitantly.

I'd spent the last six years of my life being shown that all actions I commit are deemed unacceptable, my paternal grandparents shamed me daily for the low academic marks I received or the wasted time I'd spent with music. Their son was their life and they couldn't stand to look at me, I was sent on a snoozing trip to boarding school after boarding school until finally they lost all hope.

This is now my life, at the age of twenty, being cautiously loved by grandparents who supervise my choices in order to keep me off the streets and out of prison. Their forgotten stash of liquor in the space they provided me depleting quickly as they attempt to stop me from drowning myself in drinks.

A dark liquor mirrors the shadows that have hidden my once faultless life, parents that fostered passions and high hopes that were supported unconditionally. A sudden patch of ice swerving into a path of disaster, a flipping car turning the world upside and leaving a child abandoned by parents. The deep rusted sent filling senses as eyelids blink open with blurred vision, scanning the scene for any survivors.

Everlasting pitch black leaving uncertainty as the only constant.

A trip fueled by prescription sleeping pills and desperately blind trust across an ocean delivered a flashlight to navigate the thick wood. The sun began to rise over the horizon of turmoil when a pair of bright moss irises pulled back the blackout curtains.

A bicker match filled with half-hearted insults and hidden compliments turns the sundial of life to allow the minutes to pass at the speed of light. The snail paced days filled with shamelessly desperate desires to see the sunlight again.

I slide off the stool and out of my grandmother's soft embrace to place the guitar back in its holding place and turn to see an accepting nod from my grandfather. A glance towards the front leads to a parting of the cumulonimbus for partial sunshine.

My feet are taking me to press my hands against the table to lean out for a warming sun filled view. A bloom rests beside the sun, absorbing her rays and attempting to flourish, leaving no light left behind for the struggling underbush.

He sits with his arm wrapped around her, holding her close, I can't help but ball my hands into white knuckled fists. My jaw locking tight and brows furrowing as the exchange of silent words leads to faint brushes of lips and handfuls of cheeks.

Rising from their resting place and walking hand-in-hand towards her home. Fleeting glances as they cross the busy street and car horns force me to step away and retreat back to the momentary flare that my grandparents provide.

The remaining daylight hours spent tuning guitars and playing to my grandmother's content. My grandfather brought in grease-filled diner food as the sun set.

My chest tightens at the thought of her false grimace at tomato doused grilled cheese and tight smirk matching the looted chip.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I reluctantly pull it to my vision, Rebecca, flashing across the screen with a message left underneath, 'Merry Christmas asshole.'

Classy, bitch.

I toss the phone onto the table and run my fingers through my scalp in a useless effort to remove my hair from my forehead. I can feel the envious nausea rising as I shout out through the store, "I'll be back."