A Holiday Assignment
Claire's POV
I love Christmas—or at least, I used to.
Sitting in my dimly lit cubicle, with a stack of untouched holiday cards mocking me from the corner of my desk, I wasn’t exactly feeling the festive spirit. Instead, I was drowning in deadlines, trying to finish one story before my editor inevitably found another way to ruin my holiday.
The newsroom buzzed with activity—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, and the occasional sound of laughter from those who had already mentally clocked out for the holidays. Me? I was right in the thick of it.
“Anderson! My office. Now!”
There it was. The holiday spirit killer himself.
I sighed, saving my half-finished draft before standing. “What now, Simmons?” I muttered under my breath, brushing the wrinkles out of my scarf. My feet dragged as I made my way to his office.
It didn’t matter that Simmons was technically “Mr. Simmons.” I refused to give him the satisfaction of formality. He wasn’t just my editor-in-chief—he was the man who’d made it his life’s mission to ensure I never had a peaceful holiday.
When I stepped in, Simmons was perched behind his desk, glasses sliding down his nose, his tie half-loosened. He looked up at me with that familiar gleam in his eyes—the one that usually meant trouble.
“Close the door,” he said.
Great. It’s never good when he says that.
“What’s this about?” I asked, crossing my arms and leaning against the door.
“I’ve got a last-minute assignment for you,” he began, shuffling through a pile of papers like they were treasure maps.
“Of course you do,” I said flatly. “Because I have nothing else to do on Christmas Eve.”
“Silverwood,” he said, ignoring my tone.
“Silverwood?” I repeated, frowning. “Isn’t that the tiny village in the middle of nowhere?”
“Exactly. They’ve got this whole Wishing Tree tradition. People claim it grants miracles. It’s festive, it’s magical, and it’s perfect for a holiday story.”
I blinked at him, incredulous. “You’re sending me to a remote village to write about a tree?”
“Think of it as a human-interest piece,” he said, leaning back in his chair like he was doing me a favor. “It’ll be easy. A fluff piece to warm the readers’ hearts.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Fluff piece? You’re dumping this on me, a day before Christmas!”
“Exactly,” he said, completely unfazed. “All the more reason to do it now. People love that feel-good, holiday magic stuff.”
I stared at him, weighing my options. Telling him to shove his assignment wasn’t an option. Not if I wanted to keep my job.
“The old timer sends me on an exhausting mission the night before Christmas,” I muttered under my breath. “I hope his boots fall off in the snow.”
“What was that?” Simmons asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Nothing,” I said sweetly, forcing a smile. “When do I leave?”
“Tonight. Pack warm. The roads are icy,” he said, already looking back at his papers.
“Of course they are,” I muttered as I left his office, grabbing my coat and scarf on the way out. “Merry freaking Christmas to me.”
I spent the next half hour hastily gathering what I needed. A suitcase, maybe two. Essentials—because I couldn’t afford to leave anything behind. Clothes for at least three days, thick enough to withstand the bitter cold of Silverwood. A few sweaters, some jeans, warm socks. Nothing too fancy.
And of course, my camera. Couldn’t forget that. If I was going to be stuck in a village with no story ideas, at least I’d have something to take photos of. Maybe I’d even find something interesting in this ‘magical’ tree of theirs. I also packed my laptop.
Once I was packed, I quickly checked the time. It was already nearing evening. I grabbed my bags—nothing too heavy, but enough to make me feel like I was hauling my entire life with me, and made my way to the station.
The station was buzzing with activity. The kind of bustle you’d expect from a Christmas Eve rush. People rushing to board trains, couples huddled together under thick scarves, children holding their parents' hands while tugging at their coats. It was a whirlwind of sound and movement, and it all felt too overwhelming to deal with.
I leaned against the cold concrete wall, waiting for my train to Silverwood. I hadn’t had time to process the reality of it yet—an entire Christmas Eve spent in a remote village, covering some ridiculous story about a wishing tree. As my gaze drifted around the station, the constant hum of chatter and footsteps mixed with the muffled train announcements. I let my thoughts wander.
What was Silverwood really like? A village so small and isolated that people had to believe in a magical tree to make it through the harsh winters. Couldn’t be any worse than this cramped train station, I thought bitterly. My life seemed like it was stuck on repeat—no matter how hard I tried, I could never find a decent holiday break. I shook my head, pushing the thought away. One more assignment. I’d finish this fluff piece, and then I’d get back to what I really wanted to do. I’d get through it, like everything else.
The train finally pulled into the station, its bright lights cutting through the shadows. I grabbed my suitcase and boarded, looking for a seat near the window. The familiar scent of recycled air and the soft rumble of the tracks beneath me was oddly comforting, even though I knew this train ride would be a long one.
The hours passed slowly. I leaned back in my seat, my gaze drifting out the window. The city lights blurred into a sea of gold and silver, eventually giving way to darker landscapes as we neared the outskirts. Apparently, the village was tucked away in the mountains, famous for its oversized Christmas tree and a tradition that drew tourists from all over: The Wishing Tree.
According to the folder, the tree was covered in ornaments and slips of paper—wishes written by hopeful villagers and visitors alike. Some claimed their wishes had come true, though I remained skeptical.
The journalist in me wanted to dig deeper. Was it all just a tourist trap? A clever gimmick to draw in people during the holidays?
The train jolted to a stop, pulling me out of my thoughts. I stepped off, instantly greeted by the sharp bite of mountain air. Snow crunched underfoot as I made my way to the village, my scarf pulled tight around my neck.
Silverwood was quaint, to say the least. Twinkling lights lined the narrow streets, and the scent of pine and cinnamon lingered in the air. It felt like stepping into a Christmas card—picturesque and almost too perfect to be real. The Wishing Tree stood in the heart of the village square, impossible to miss. It was massive, easily towering over the nearby buildings, its branches heavy with ornaments and slips of paper. A crowd had gathered around it, their laughter and chatter carrying through the crisp night air.
I stood there for a moment, taking it all in. The tree was beautiful, I’d give it that.
But the warmth of the scene was quickly overshadowed by a harsher reality: every inn and bed-and-breakfast in the village was booked solid.
“What do you mean, there’s no room?” I asked the innkeeper for the third time, my patience wearing thin.
“I’m sorry, miss,” he said, shaking his head. “We’ve been fully booked for weeks. Folks come from all over to see the tree this time of year.”
“Great,” I muttered, stepping back outside. The cold was relentless, and my toes were already starting to go numb. I looked around, spotting a bench near the tree.
Defeated, I made my way over, sitting down and pulling my coat tighter around me. I was just here for a story, I reminded myself. A few interviews, some photos, and I’d be on my way.
But as I stared at the Wishing Tree, with its branches heavy with the hopes and dreams of so many, I couldn’t help but wonder: what would I wish for?