Shadows of the Past
It was an icy evening in Soho. The streets glistened under the light of the lanterns, and snow had covered the rooftops of the city in a pristine white blanket. People hurried past each other in warm coats, laughing and full of anticipation for Christmas and the holidays to come. The Christmas lights shone above the streets and from the shop windows.
But amidst this festive scene stood one building that stubbornly resisted the general cheer: the bookshop on Whickber Street, with its sign reading A.Z. Fell & Co.
Once a welcoming establishment, the shop had taken on a frosty, unapproachable character over the past few years. The windows, once warmly illuminated, now appeared dull and clouded, as though the dust on the glass had been deliberately left there to keep the outside world at bay. Not too long ago, the bookshop had been among the first in Whickber Street to light its Christmas decorations. But for many years now, those windows had remained dark.
Inside, it was quiet. Far too quiet.
The shop’s owner sat, as he often did, behind a large desk, meticulously restoring a leather-bound book. His clothes were old-fashioned and somewhat rumpled, the white shirt and waistcoat looking almost too tight, and his white-blond hair—once radiant and curly—was now disheveled and unkempt. All of this reflected the pensive mood that hung heavily over him.
The light from the desk lamp flickered, and the room was filled with the scent of old pages mixed with the chill of the evening air, which seeped through the drafty window frames. Once, this room had been full of warmth and life, but the last few years had changed it—just as they had changed its owner.
“Such nonsense,” he muttered to himself as a pedicab pulled up outside the shop, blaring cheerful Christmas music. “‘Peace and goodwill to all.’ Bah. A lie, nothing more. Nonsense!”
The bell above the door jingled, and a young woman entered, wrapped in an oversized red-and-green scarf. It was Muriel, his assistant. Her face shone with enthusiasm, but when she caught the stern look of her employer, her brightness faded instantly.
“Good evening, Mr. Fell,” she began hesitantly. “Sorry, I’m a bit late,” she added apologetically.
Aziraphale Fell merely rolled his eyes and returned to his work, hoping it might provide some distraction from his unsettled thoughts.
The rest of the workday passed in silence. Few customers ventured into the shop anymore, and Muriel happily tended to those who did. Later, she absentmindedly began humming a Christmas tune, but an irritated clearing of her employer’s throat made her stop immediately.
“Mr. Fell, I was wondering if I could come in a bit later on the 27th… because of Christmas, hm… I’ll be visiting my family in Newport and would like to spend both days with them,” Muriel ventured timidly after carefully placing the last restored book of the day back on the shelf.
Aziraphale set aside his work and looked at her over the rim of his glasses.
“Come in later? And who will tend to the books and the customers? Do you think all this runs itself?” Muriel looked resigned and seemed to decide against asking anything further. Then, however, she pressed on: “It’s just… my family’s coming together. It would be nice to stay a little longer. I’ll take the first train on Thursday morning.”
Her employer let out a deep sigh and shook his head. “Fine. But you’ll stay late that evening!” Even as he said the words, he wondered why he’d agreed. He usually preferred to be alone, even finding customers too much at times. But Muriel beamed from ear to ear. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Fell! And Merry Christmas!” she called out as she hurried out, leaving him no chance to change his mind.
“Merry Christmas,” Aziraphale murmured softly as the door closed behind her. “Nonsense!”
No sooner had she left than there was a knock at the shop door. Aziraphale didn’t move. He barely looked up. Who could it be? Probably just some overly cheerful carolers ready to belt out their Christmas songs at him—merry tunes with absurdly naive lyrics about joy and love for all. What did they know about real life?
The knocking came again, louder this time.
“Closed!” he called out without looking up. The knocking persisted, and at last, a familiar voice rang out: “Zira, I know you’re in there. Come on, open up.”
Aziraphale grimaced. “Oh, wonderful. Why am I not surprised?”
Annoyed, he stood up and shuffled to the door. When he opened it, a striking woman stood before him, smiling warmly with a festive red scarf around her neck. She appeared slightly older than Aziraphale, though the cheer in her face made her seem younger. Her well-tailored gray suit was paired with a blue coat that, along with the scarf, gave her a festive look. It seemed as if she viewed life with a lightness most found contagious—though not for the one who knew her best and now stood facing her.
“Michael,” Aziraphale said, his tone bitter. “Have you come to wish me a merry Christmas? Because if so, I can tell you right now: don’t bother.”
Michael’s smile didn’t falter. “Same old, little brother. But no, I’m not here for that. I’m here to invite you to Christmas dinner tomorrow.”
“Christmas dinner?” Aziraphale stared at her as though she had lost her mind. “Why on earth would I want that?” Michael tilted her head. “Because it would do you good. And because, no matter how much you deny it, you’re part of the family—of us.”
“Us.” Aziraphale felt as if someone had driven a knife straight into his stomach. He leaned against the doorframe. “There is no ‘us’ for me. Not anymore.”
Michael sighed, and for a moment, the radiant smile disappeared from her face. “Maybe it’s not the same as it was 14 years ago. But there’s still you. And there’s still me. Eric misses you, and the twins would love to see you again. Uriel and Dagon are practically grown up now. Do you know when you last saw them?” She paused meaningfully. “When they were three. Three years, Aziraphale. And it’s Christmas. It’s time for you to stop shutting yourself away and wallowing in your misery.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about, Michael,” Aziraphale snapped, his voice sharp as an icy wind. “I’m not the man I once was. And I won’t let you—or anyone else—persuade me to attend a Christmas Dinner just to fake some cheer for one evening among people who don’t understand me. Not on Christmas. Not any day of the year.”
Michael sighed deeply, stepping closer and gently placing a hand on Aziraphale’s arm. “You’ve changed, Zira. But you’re still family. And even if you won’t admit it, you know you’re only punishing yourself by isolating like this. As I’ve told you many times before: you need to stop.” She withdrew her hand and gave him a concerned look. “We need you. And I think you might need us, too—or at least a little joy.”
“I need no one,” Aziraphale replied coldly. “No joy, no company. I’ve made my choice long ago.” A cold gust of wind swept through the open shop door, letting the chill of the evening air seep into the room. Aziraphale looked at Michael, and for the first time that evening, the brightness in her eyes seemed to fade completely. Yet she held his gaze steadfastly, as if clinging to one last, unshakable hope that she might break through his bitterness.
“We all need something, Zira,” she said softly. “Sometimes it just takes a bit more bravery to admit it.”
With those words, she turned and left, leaving Aziraphale standing alone in the silent bookshop, which now seemed even emptier and darker than before.
*****
The evening was already late, and the frosty breath of winter crept through the streets of Soho. The city lights glittered as the snowflakes danced in the cold. In the bookshop "A.Z. Fell & Co." it was quiet and cold, the lights had been out for a long time. Aziraphale had gone upstairs to prepare for the night. His bedroom was lit only by the low glow of his bedside lamp.
Aziraphale gasped as he rolled into the stiffly starched bed sheets. "Christmas," he muttered contemptuously. "A festival of sentimentality and love of neighbour. As if life were that simple!" The bedside lamp flickered approvingly, or at least that's what he imagined. He pulled the covers over his ears and hoped for a quiet night.
Just as the blond curly-haired man had sunk into a dreamless sleep, he was woken up again by a loud noise from the floor below.
" It can't be," he muttered, trying to ignore the noise. "It must be the wind." But the rumbling got louder. And louder. Until a loud "BOOM" sounded, followed by the deafening clang of chains. Aziraphale sat up bolt upright. "What the...?" But the rest of his sentence trailed off as the wall in front of him burst open with a crunch, as if a particularly angry renovation expert had decided to start working in the middle of the night.
In a cloud of lime dust, his old work colleague Gabriel emerged - as always, immaculately groomed and with a disarming smile that shone almost as much as the chains wrapped around his body. His dark hair seemed to dance in the air as if it were not attached to gravity. He, too, seemed to float lightly and effortlessly above the old wooden floor.
"Aziraphale, old boy!" Gabriel shouted, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to burst into his former colleague's bedroom in the middle of the night, years after his own death.
"Gabriel?! What - by all the dusty manuscripts - are you doing here? And... what's with these unspeakably loud chains? Are you in the latest adaptation of Dicken's Christmas Carol?" Aziraphale's voice wavered between indignation and genuine astonishment.
Gabriel's smile faded a little as he rattled the chains. "Oh, that? Just a little side effect of me being... well... dead. You remember that, don't you? And a reminder of all that I missed out on while I was still on earth. Every missing chance from my life."
"Missed chance?" repeated Aziraphale weakly.
"Absolutely. And I figured, hey, if I have to wander around ghostly on Christmas Eve, why not drop in and see an old friend and save him from that destiny?"
"Friend?" repeated Aziraphale, frowning. "As I recall, we were never really ... best friends. And as for the chains - I didn't get the impression that you ever missed anything in your life. You've always been quite ... hm, how should I put it ... self-sufficient?" Gabriel laughed dryly and crossed his arms as far as the chains would allow. "Self-sufficient? That's a nice way of describing it. I'd rather say stubborn, obstinate and about as emotionally available as a stone in a riverbed."
"I wouldn't have described it like that," Aziraphale murmured, slightly embarrassed, turning her head to the side. "But you would have thought so," Gabriel countered with a wry grin. But then he became more serious. "Do you know what I regret most, Aziraphale? After our education, when we were preparing for everything - the exams, the self-employment, all that stuff - I was always trying to prove myself. I thought that if I did everything right, I wouldn't need anyone and I wouldn't have to deal with those awkward things like closeness or belonging." He tugged demonstratively at the chains, which clinked in response. "Well, surprise: I was wrong. It turns out that a life where you cut yourself off from everything like a block of granite ends up weighing quite heavily."
Aziraphale cleared his throat, embarrassed. "But ... you found someone, didn't you? What was her name again ... Belle? Belle Zebub?" He tilted his head thoughtfully as he tried to remember. "I think she once explained the origin of her unusual surname to me... At a book fair. You loved. That is what counts, Gabriel."
Gabriel's smile returned as he thought of her, softer this time. "Yes, I did. She was incredible. Pulled me out of my self-made tower, forced me to live - really live. We had two wonderful years. But you know, then came the car accident. Bang, end of the road. Do you know what I think in looking back?"
Aziraphale looked a little worried at his blanket, but he tried to cover it up. "That life is unfair?" he suggested cautiously.
"No," Gabriel said, raising his eyebrows. "That I've been an idiot. I've wasted so much time hiding behind work, career and my own awesomeness that I've almost completely missed out on the most important things in life. But hey, don't worry - that was just my life!"
He laughed bitterly. "But you, old friend, you're still at the beginning. It's not too late. Stop hiding behind your books and your fear of making mistakes. Live your life before you end up in eternity with a fancy accessory like that." He indicated the chains with a nod of his head.
Aziraphale snorted indignantly. "I'm not like you!" Gabriel laughed and replied: " You've got it right, Don't wait! Get you're Self involved. Now it's too late for me, but it's not too late for you. You can be saved. !"
"Loosely adapted from Dickens' 'Scrooged'with Bill Murray." Aziraphale muttered and rolled his eyes. "Please don't tell me a mouse is about to push a golf ball out of your head," he grimaced in disgust.
"Focus, Aziraphale," Gabriel spoke, snapping his fingers in front of his face, "After all you know now. Was it wise for me to start avoiding all humans after my studies?"
"Well, as someone who has taken a different path, I can tell you with certainty: Yes!" replied the blonde, a little defiant but full of conviction that he had found a way to go through life unharmed.
"Meeeep!" Gabriel imitated the buzzer on a quiz show. "Wrong. Definitely wrong. But since I'm afraid you'll never get the right answer here, I'll help you. Well, I'm going to send you three spirits to take you on the most important journey of your life."
"Three spirits?! What's this nonsense! That's completely needless. My life is perfectly fine," he snorted angrily, but beneath the anger lay fear - fear and worry about his own shadows from the past. Gabriel nodded, seemingly serious, but followed up with a sarcastic "Of course, of course". "And anyway, have fun with the three of them. They'll like you - see you, old mate!" With a final, loud clink of chains and an overdramatic gesture of throwing his arms over himself like a slightly too enthusiastic orchestra master, Gabriel disappeared as abruptly as he had arrived, leaving behind him an ominous cloud of dust and a strange echo of his laughter.
Aziraphale stared at the wall, which was now closed again, as if none of this had actually happened. He shook his head again in disbelief, then sighed deeply, pulled the blanket even tighter around him and muttered, "Ghosts. What a nonsense. Tomorrow I'll talk to an exorcist. Or a good psychiatrist."
*****
The bells of St Anne's Church were already striking one o'clock and Aziraphale had fallen back into a restless sleep. But it wasn't the sound of the bells that woke him from his sleep. It was the strange feeling that he was no longer alone in his bedroom. Confused, he blinked into the darkness as he noticed a soft glow slowly moving towards him.
The first ghost had actually appeared - or was it a dream, a hallucination from eating bad food? Aziraphale rubbed his eyes as he looked at the floating spirit, which was now slowly approaching. The spirit had a feminine appearance, with an aura of calm, but also an extraordinary presence that immediately caught Aziraphale's attention. Her eyes glowed with a strange determination, and her posture was so confident that it seemed to penetrate the darkness of the room. Her long black dreadlocks waved around her like snakes, almost weightless. Her outline was vague and flickering, seeming to change constantly, and yet there was something about her that didn't quite seem to fit in the moment. She looked like the barista from across the street, the same woman Aziraphale had seen just this morning, with her supremely powerful energy that she exuded from morning to evening. "Aha, a dream!" the bookseller said aloud to himself. "Of course, I'm processing the day, and I saw Nina on my way to work this morning. Ridiculously merry Christmas she shouted to me. What nonsense."
"Why can't you believe your eyes?" asked the floating creature, her voice soft yet clear and unmistakably Nina's.
"Oh, I trust my eyes. And myself, myself most of all. But I'm definitely still asleep," he replied almost defiantly and crossed his arms. A feeling of uncertainty and resistance flowed through him.
Then the ghost suddenly shot forward and pulled at his sheets with such force that Aziraphale fell out of bed with a loud bang, along with the velvet of his bed linen. "Impudence!" he cursed and reached for his smartphone, which had fallen from the bedside table. With one swing, he threw the object at the creature that was disturbing his sleep. But it simply flew through the creature as if it were part of the air itself. "You're..." Aziraphale faltered and stared at it, still dazed. "You look like..."
"I am the Ghost of Christmas Past," the woman said with a slight, almost amused smile that only confused Aziraphale more. "And you are Aziraphale, aren't you?"
"Yes, I am, but..." Aziraphale glanced at her again and couldn't help thinking it was the barista. "That's... strange," he muttered. "You remind me of someone." He squinted his eyes as he tried to get a clear thought.
"I have many shapes," the ghost replied, calmly. "It's a bit like you say. I appear to those I visit in a form that is familiar to them. That they trust at least enough to buy the occasional tea from her." She grinned. Knowing full well that Aziraphale and Nina's relationship long ago went far beyond a cup of tea.
"So you put something in my tea today to make me hallucinate like this?" grumbled Aziraphale.
"You and the black spot currently appearing on your backside know that's not the case," she replied, with a raised eyebrow. "Come on, it's time," she added, extending her hand to the one still sitting on the ground. "Come on, Aziraphale. Let's go on our journey."
Hesitantly, he grasped the spirit's cool hand. She gently pulled him to his feet. "Hold on," she said curtly and raised her other hand. Suddenly, the room they were in was no longer the calm, familiar place it had been, but a swirling mist of light and shadow. Everything around them began to spin and merge, like a whirlwind that seemed to be pulling them towards an uncertain future.
But when the swirl subsided, they didn't find themselves in the future. They ended up in the past, more precisely in Aziraphale's school days. The boy he had been back then was sitting at a wooden table in a library that belonged to a home for orphaned children. The furnishings still had the charm of the late 1970s, the grey concrete building was still quite new and had only been in use for about ten years. The bookshelves were made of solid cherry wood, the tables and chairs were simpler, but covered with stickers proclaiming "Nuclear power, no thanks!" or idols such as Michael Jackson, Madonna or a group of jolly turtles wearing colourful bandages around their knees, elbows and eyes.Snowflakes were falling outside the window and children could be seen sledging on a hill outside, laughing and throwing snowballs at each other from time to time. They all wore snowsuits that stood out in flashy colours against the cold winter landscape. But the joy and light-heartedness didn't seem to reach the library. The small, slightly chubby, blond curly-haired boy in the brown cord trousers and beige tartan jumper - which he loved more than anything because it was a present from his big sister - was flicking through a book, lost in his thoughts.
It didn't usually bother him that he was considered an outsider at school, preferring to read rather than deal with the things that interested his classmates. He also didn't want to force himself to listen to the music the others were listening to on their Walkmans. He loved being whisked away to other worlds by books. He experienced more adventures than his classmates could ever have imagined. But every time he turned the last page of a book and the beloved characters and companions left him, he felt lonely again. Those were the moments when he missed his parents and especially his big sister the most.
Mica - as only Aziraphale called his big sister - used to come to London every Christmas to spend time with him. But this year she had decided to celebrate with her newlywed husband Eric. Aziraphale was too proud to admit how sad he was about it and, above all, didn't want to stand in the way of his sister and her happiness.
Aziraphale watched his younger self and remembered that Christmas, the quiet, thoughtful boy who existed in the midst of the others, like a shadow, yet never complained. He could see the pain in his own eyes, the feeling of being different, the feeling of not belonging.
"That was my childhood," Aziraphale said quietly, feeling a mixture of shame and sadness rise up inside him. "I was an outsider." He grimaced, as if he hoped the past could change in one fell swoop.
"But you were special too," the ghost said sympathetically. "Like all the children in this world, you were someone who deserved all the love in the world."
"And yet I was alone that Christmas," murmured the adult Aziraphale. "My parents were dead, and Michael had started to build a family of their own in which I had no place."
"Was that really the case, or perhaps you just didn't want to be a burden on anyone and suggested staying in London of your own free will?" the ghost asked cautiously.
"I was 13 years old!" Aziraphale hissed. "Yes, I wanted everyone to be happy and nobody to have to take me into consideration. But... But..." A shadow came over his face as he continued. "Then I've done everything right, haven't I? By turning my back on all this years ago. Without sorrow, without looking back."
The ghost tilted his head and looked at him with a questioning look, tinged with pity. "Yes, you have turned away from those who love you. But without sorrow... I don't believe that. And for looking back... you have me for that now." Without asking, she took Aziraphale's hand.
He didn't have a chance to get upset at the insinuation, because instantly they were pulled back into the whirlwind of the disintegrating library and found themselves in a completely different scene. Aziraphale, still in his pyjamas, stood in the middle of a hectic room and saw himself as a young man, standing in front of a bookshelf, armed with a clipboard.
Everyone around him was bustling about, pushing tables together, throwing Christmas decorations on them or hanging mistletoe from the large chandeliers that lit up the room.
It was Mr Fur Furzziwig's antiquarian bookshop, where he and Gabriel had both studied to be booksellers. Aziraphale was proud and happy to have been able to get a job there. Apprenticeships in an antiquarian bookshop were certainly not a normal thing, but Mr Furzziwig's huge shop fulfilled all the requirements, and so Aziraphale had the chance to deal with old books, rarities and collector's items from an early age - something he was sure he would have missed in a normal bookshop.
"Mr Furzziwig..." muttered Aziraphale as he spotted his former boss in his worn black coat and tangled hair. He strolled through the large room with his wife Shax, elegantly dressed as always in a red coat and matching hat, tidying a few tablecloths here and there.
"Mr. Fell," Furzziwig said kindly but firmly to the young Aziraphale, "how about you stop making the restoration list and get ready for the party?"
"The party...?" the young Aziraphale replied hesitantly. "Yes, Christmas. The party starts at eight at the latest, and there's still a lot to do." Furzziwig unceremoniously took the clipboard from him and vigorously but lovingly pushed him away from the shelves.
His older self observed the scene and remembered it clearly. There were always huge Christmas parties at this company, the Christmas decorations were famous throughout the city, and recently even the big Christmas Lights double-decker buses, with tourists usually freezing on the open top floor, had been driving past the antiquarian bookshop. But all the hustle and bustle and joy still couldn't really get through to the young Aziraphale; something deep inside him had been broken by the Christmas days he had spent alone in the orphanage and the loss of his parents over the Christmas season. He could no longer really enjoy the holidays.
"Hey, mate," Gabriel's voice snapped the lost-in-thought Aziraphale in his pyjamas out of his thoughts and made his younger self look up with an implied roll of his eyes. "I'm going to brighten things up and play this new Christmas song by that Mariah Carey. But I promised Mrs F that I'd take care of the fresh floral decorations... Hm, they should be delivered any minute, I'm sure it's a lot again. Can you take care of that?"
Aziraphale shrugged his shoulders. "All right, then I'll escape the Christmas rush for a bit," he said almost indifferently and made his way to the back entrance, where the delivery vehicle would have a better chance of stopping.
"Go on," grinned the Ghost of Christmas Past, poking Aziraphale playfully in the side. "You should see this." Aziraphale grimaced almost painfully. "I don't want to see that," he whispered. But the ghost was undeterred and so they followed his younger self.
He was already standing at the open door, looking at a small black van labelled "Crowley & Son - Starlight blossoms". At first he hesitated, not wanting to go out into the cold. But he knew that old Mr Crowley was not in the best of health, so he decided to go out into the icy London air to help him with the unloading.
Aziraphale already had a friendly "Good evening Mr C." on his lips when he stopped. The man who popped casually out of the car with a small but already decorated Christmas tree was not the old Mr Crowley he had expected. In front of him stood a young man who radiated a fascinating mixture of elegance and lightness. He was wearing ripped black jeans and a black and grey woollen jumper with a turtleneck that reached below his prominent chin. When he noticed Aziraphale, the young man flipped his shoulder-length, flaming red hair back with a practised movement.
"Oh," Aziraphale said, a little confused, "I thought it was... well, Mr Crowley."
The young man smiled slightly and put the tree down. "No, I don't see myself that way yet," he replied in a voice that was both calm and yet full of energy. "I am Anthony. The son. The heir of the flower empire," he continued jokingly. "Call me Crowley, that's what my friends and those who will be do."
Aziraphale was surprised, but at the same time fascinated by the ease that the young man, who was probably about his age, exuded. "Ah, the son," he repeated thoughtfully. "So he can let go after all... I thought the shop would stay in your father's hands forever."
"Yeah, I guess a lot of people thought that," Crowley said, now leaning casually against the edge of the van. "But I guess he realised that he deserved to enjoy his retirement in a different way than driving plants around and constantly carrying soil and pots."
Aziraphale nodded, but seemed thoughtful. "It really is a big responsibility to take over the shop so young. But the start looks promising," he said, hastily turning his gaze from Crowley to the lovingly decorated tree. He was still wondering where this sudden interest, even concern for the well-being, of a complete stranger had come from. Crowley smiled and was just about to grab the tree to carry it towards the antiquarian bookshop when Aziraphale intervened. "Wait, I'll take that. If I know my boss, the whole van is full of decorations for our Christmas party. I'll give you a hand."
Crowley smiled, and there was almost a flash of attraction in his amber-coloured eyes. "I've had countless deliveries today, but never such a kind offer. Thank you, Angel."
The last word made Aziraphale blush slightly, so he preferred to quickly grab the little tree and carry it towards the door. Crowley immediately followed him with two huge Christmas wreaths in red and gold. After they had emptied the whole van and Crowley had happily explained that this was the last delivery on Christmas Eve, Aziraphale felt sad that their time together was coming to an end. He stood shyly in front of the slightly taller redhead, looked up at him, kneaded his hands shyly and, after gathering all his courage, asked, "So, if you're off work now, maybe... well, so... possibly... um... would you... you like to go to the biggest Christmas party in town?" He pointed shyly at the entrance behind him. Crowley looked like he was trying his hardest to stifle a smile, but it was unstoppable as he tilted his head slightly to the side and replied, "I'd love to, Angel."
The older Aziraphale sighed as he watched his younger self and Crowley disappear into the antiquarian bookshop. He would have given anything to swap places with his younger self at this point. The ghost of Christmas past hovered around him for once. "Yes, that energy he brought with him," the ghost said, "was a real turning point for you then. You found a door to another world... A home."
Aziraphale nodded, the thought of that moment when he first met Crowley was overwhelming. The memory of the warmth and connection he felt from the first second was too much. The past, as beautiful as it was, now felt like a distant dream. The ghost of Christmas past glanced at him as he sensed Aziraphale wasn't really ready to move on. "You don't want to see more?" she said softly, reading the uncertainty in Aziraphale's gaze.
"It was... really beautiful," Aziraphale whispered. "It was truly unique. But I don't want to see any more memories. It's too painful."
"It's just a memory," the ghost said softly. "But it's a part of you. Come with me, I'll show you a Christmas in another place."
Aziraphale wanted to pull his hand back, but the ghost had already grabbed it and everything began to blur again. The whirlpool of colours and memories pulled them into another time, another place. And when it dissipated, Aziraphale found himself back in a room that was familiar, but also strange. The smell of paper, old leather and wood caught his nose. The shop he found himself in was no longer Furzziwig's antiquarian bookshop, but the bookshop he had taken over himself. It was a small but fine shop in Wickber Street that he had taken over from the former owner with a lot of luck and even more effort. The shelves were full of old, rare books that couldn't be found anywhere else in this form, and the light from the antique lamps fell softly on the dark wood of the shelves.
It was Christmas time and the shop shone in festive glamour. A small tree stood in the corner, decorated with golden baubles and a star spike. The room was quiet, although it was rarely empty. But today everyone was getting ready for the shopkeepers' big Christmas party. It was a beloved tradition that was celebrated in a different shop in the neighbourhood every year. It had to be decided by lot, which was always drawn in October at the monthly Whickber Street shopkeepers' meeting. This year, the party was to take place at Marguerite's, Justine's French restaurant. For this reason, the young Aziraphale happily pranced around the shop, practising his fragile French, knowing that Justine had been living in London for 15 years and was also fluent in English.
When Aziraphale saw his younger self and realised what Christmas it was, he turned around and hurried to the door. But the ghost seemed to have taken over not only Nina's appearance, but also her strength and iron will. With a skilful turn, she blocked his path, turned him around rudely and pushed him back into the centre of the scene, which he would have liked to banish from his memory forever.
Aziraphale shook her off, but remained standing next to the desk where she had placed him. "I know what happens next," he said, the words hanging in the air heavily. "I've experienced it myself." But the ghost only pointed to the shop door, on which there was a knock at that very moment.
Aziraphale knew who it was before the visitor entered. Crowley. The young man he loved so much, the man who meant everything to him. The man who had made his life shine since the day they first met. But also the man he had hurt again and again in recent years without really wanting to.
It was an emotional moment when Crowley closed the door behind him and Aziraphale greeted him happily. Without a word, Aziraphale pulled him into an intimate kiss that the older Aziraphale well knew tasted like home as well as years of shared memories. When they separated, they looked at each other, and Aziraphale stroked Crowley's cheek gently. "Good to see you, my starlight," Aziraphale said as he unobtrusively glanced hastily around Crowley to the street.
But the young florist knew him and also recognised the look. He raised a brow and sighed loudly before replying with a reproachful "And yet the first thing you do is check to see if anyone else has seen us".
"You know we can't show ourselves as a couple in front of the others, Crowley," Aziraphale said quietly, almost mockingly. Crowley shook his head and replied almost soberly: "Can? Or want to? Angel, it's 2015, we're not in the last century anymore." He sighed. "Sometimes I get the feeling that it's not your coming out that scares you, but that you're personally embarrassed by me." The young Aziraphale widened his eyes and reached for his partner's hands. "No!" he whimpered with a pleading look. "You are my starlight, you mean everything to me in this world."
"And yet you can't commit to us." Crowley pressed his lips together and his eyes glazed over, but he continued in a trembling voice: "That you always treat me like we're just neighbours at the festivities, like WE don't really exist... It hurts me more than you can imagine."
"I..." Aziraphale faltered. The words he wanted to say stuck in his throat. What else could he say to Crowley? He wanted to stand by his love, but he was afraid - afraid of the judgement of the other shopkeepers, afraid of the way the customers would look at him, even afraid of what his friends might think of him. He knew it was certainly groundless. Mica was the only one who knew, and even she had advised him several times to just get involved with Crowley and stand by it. But his past had marked him too much. He felt too dependent on the opinions of others and wanted to do everything right. And so he didn't finish the sentence. He stood there and held the hands of his great love while he felt this love slipping away from him.
"I can't do this anymore," Crowley whispered, his face filled with pain. "I can't pretend we're just friends or neighbours. It's not enough for me, Aziraphale. I need more than secret meetings at your place or mine. I need you. In my life, by my side."
Aziraphale felt like the ground was being pulled out from under him. "Crowley... I..." he began again, but there was nothing he could say.
"It's Christmas, Angel," Crowley said, his voice trembling slightly. "A festival of love. But you care more about other people's opinions than our love. So why should I stay here?" With those words, he released himself from Aziraphale's hands, turned and walked to the door. Aziraphale tried to stop him, but he knew it was too late. Crowley had already made up his mind. Aziraphale stood motionless in the shop as the sound of the door closing was the only sound to break the silence. The air in the room seemed colder, and Aziraphale suddenly felt emptier than she had ever felt before.
"Crowley..." the older Aziraphale whispered into the silence. His face was marked with the same pained, longing expression as his younger self, who was still staring motionlessly at the door.
The ghost of Christmas past hovered closer. "You let him go because you were afraid," the ghost said softly. "Afraid to open up, afraid to show yourself. But you never explained to him that this was the reason that held you back. But who knows.... maybe there's still a chance."
Aziraphale didn't answer, he stood looking out of the window. The snow was falling gently, and the lights of the street continued to shine. But it had gone dark for him.
"Take me away from here," he whispered bitterly. "You've given me nothing but pain." The ghost took him by the hand and whispered urgently: "These are only the shadows of what was once. Don't blame me for them being the way they are." With these words, the scenery around them blurred again. Aziraphale kept an eye on his younger self for as long as he could and wished he had the power to change this memory.