Freezing rain trickled down the back of his neck and the early morning sky rumbled in a petulant resignation, as if even the heavens were already bored with the it. Through the breaks in the thunder, there was the sound of the shovel breaking earth, scraping against the wet dirt. It was accompanied by the disruptive 'plop' of the shovelfuls being deposited onto the ground beside the wiry young figure. A woolen winter hat with it's ear flaps and tassels served to accent the damp sway of long strawberry blonde hair.

Strangely, though the rain came down in cold bursts, the young man was singing loudly and cheerfully as he worked. His happiness came from this work. The simple, repetitive motion of his arms flexing, the muscles coiling and relaxing, shoulders tense. But he didn't allow himself to feel the pain that came from this. His feet shifted, planting themselves more firmly in the dirt.

Once, he lifted his head and wiped the water from his forehead, pausing in his work to look at the tree that grew in the front yard of this home. There were the lights of a warm, happy family. At least, he hoped they were happy. Too many people in the world only went through the daily motions of life, not taking the time to enjoy themselves. In his sharp features, there was a glimmer of pity reflected, dimming the simple joy he'd felt while working.

The lights flickered off, the door opened, and the family of four; the pretty young girl whose face always held a hint of pain, the baby boy who'd yet to age enough to be any more than astonished with the world, the wife that looked to her husband with a loving deference, and the man. He was the one that Ambrose watched with a hint of cynical amusement. They nodded at each other as the family hurried through the rain to their car, heading out to places unknown to him.

When he watched that car roll away into the weather that was quickly turning to sleet, his heart jumped with an inordinate amount of fear. For some reason, he felt they might not return. It wasn't the fact that he'd not earn his pay for this job if the fear was recognized, it was a pure fear for their lives. For now, unable to discover its reason, he buried it under the focus on physical labor, under the struggle to ignore the damp cold that snuck into his bones through the well worn work clothes.

For now, all that mattered was digging this hole. Then dropping the tree into it. Decorating. Stringing lights. Anything else they asked him to do for their readying for the holidays.