The neon pulse of New Tokyo felt colder than usual as the artificial snow—a byproduct of the city’s atmospheric scrubbers—drifted down like almond slivers onto the metal walkways. The city, a colossal sprawl of chrome and carbon, hummed with the ceaseless rhythm of a million lives under perpetual twilight. Each hab-unit, a tiny cell in the vast hive, offered its occupants a fleeting illusion of privacy, a fragile shield against the overwhelming scale of their existence.
In the corner of a cramped hab-unit, barely larger than a maintenance pod, Kael sat before a flickering holographic projector. It wasn’t showing the latest data-streams or hyper-ads, nor the endless loop of manufactured entertainment that usually filled the void. Instead, it displayed a grainy, centuries-old image of a pine tree, impossibly green, that glitched to the point of turning into stipple before it dissolved. The resolution was poor, the colors fading in and out, but to Kael, it was a window to a forgotten world.
“Is that it?” a small voice asked, full of innocence and curiosity. Rin, Kael’s daughter, leaned in, her small face illuminated by the emerald light of the projection, her eyes wide with wonder. She had only ever seen the sterile, metallic landscapes of New Tokyo.
“That was a Christmas tree,” Kael said, pulling her close to his side, his voice rough, raspy from the recycled air that circulated through their sealed environment. “Back when the seasons changed on their own, and trees grew from the ground, not in climate-controlled bio-domes.” He pointed to a faint shimmer in the projection. “Those are decorations, called ornaments. And the bright bits? Those were tiny lights. And through the windows, real snow fell all through the night, making everything sparkle when the sun rose the next morning.”
He reached into the pocket of his worn flight suit, a relic from his days as a deep-space hauler, and pulled out a small, round object. It was a genuine orange—a luxury item, a forbidden fruit smuggled in from the orbital hydro-farms, costing more credits than a month’s oxygen scrip. He peeled it slowly, the sharp, sweet, citrus scent a potent, almost forgotten aroma, cutting through the metallic tang of the station’s recycled air.
“Daddy,” Rin said, her eyes still fixed on the holographic tree, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow. “Can the projector… can it bring back the smell of the tree?” She sniffed the air, as if trying to conjure the scent from the pixels themselves. “And… and the snow? The real snow! Can I feel it?”
Kael chuckled softly. “Oh, little star, if only I could. The projector can show us images, sounds sometimes, but to bring back a scent… that’s a different kind of tech and I would need a lot more power and upgrades–– and at that, it would not be the real scent of the tree.”
He handed a slice to Rin. As she tasted the fruit of an Earth she would never see, a world that existed only in fragmented data-logs and faded projections, the distant hum of the fusion reactor outside their window seemed to fade, replaced, just for a moment, by the faint echo of a choir.
“Merry Christmas Eve, Rin,” he whispered, brushing her hair aside, watching her savor the alien sweetness.
He tinkered with the old holographic unit, a scavenged piece of pre-collapse tech he’d lovingly restored. He’d often pushed its limits, extracting every ounce of its archaic magic. He adjusted a dial, intending to enhance the image, but as his fingers brushed a loose wire, a jolt coursed through the unit, and a blinding flash erupted from the projector.
The hab-unit dissolved around them. The metallic walls, the flickering neon, the distant hum of the reactor—all vanished in a dizzying blur of light and color. It felt like they’d slid into a hyper-jump, but not across vast interstellar distances. Instead, they plunged through layers of time, through forgotten memories and echoes of a world long gone.
When the light faded, the air was suddenly thick with the scent of burning wood and something else, something sweet and warm. The sterile, recycled air was replaced by a crisp, cold breath that carried the unmistakable aroma of pine. Kael blinked, his eyes adjusting.
They were no longer in their cramped hab-unit. They were in a rustic log cabin, its walls made of rough-hewn timber. A stone fireplace dominated one wall, a cheerful fire crackling within, casting dancing shadows across the room. Though the windows, fat, fluffy snowflakes drifted lazily down onto the sills, the grove beyond, blanketed with sleeves of snow on their branches. Real snow.
On a worn wooden counter in the corner, a platter of golden-brown cookies sat cooling, their aroma of cinnamon and sugar almost overwhelming. A large, bushy evergreen tree stood proudly in the center of the room, adorned with strings of bright, colorful lights and shimmering glass ornaments.
Rin gasped, her eyes wider than Kael had ever seen them. She stared at the tree, then at the fire, then at the snow falling outside. “Daddy,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I can smell the … the tree… The snow!” she shouted, running to the window, her breath fogging the cold glass pane.
Kael could only stare, his mind reeling. The air was colder, fresher, invigorating. He reached out, his hand passing through the warm air emanating from the fireplace, feeling the radiant heat on his skin. This wasn’t a projection. This was real.
A grandfather clock in the corner chimed softly, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated through the cabin, marking a time that was, and yet, somehow, now. They had fallen, not through space, but through time, landing in a Christmas of a forgotten past.
David Nadas 