A Tibbi Ann New Year’s Eve

The old clock ticked louder than it should have.

Not broken—just aware.

Outside, the hills wore a thin frost, the kind that turns every sound sharp. Snow hadn’t fallen yet, but the air promised it. Midnight hovered close, waiting its turn like it always does on New Year’s Eve—quiet, patient, watching.

The house settled around us. Floorboards sighed. Pipes whispered. Somewhere near the back porch, the wind found a loose board and knocked once… then twice. Not a warning. More like a reminder.

We counted down the year softly. Not because we were tired—because it felt wrong to shout. Some nights ask for listening.

At eleven fifty-nine, the lights flickered. Just enough to make everyone pause.

Then—

silence.

No countdown.

No fireworks.

Just the clock.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

When midnight finally arrived, it didn’t rush in. It slipped through the doorway like a familiar ghost, brushing past old memories that lingered in the corners—voices that once laughed here, footsteps that never fully left. The air smelled faintly of cold wood and something else… something older.

Outside, a single firework cracked far off in the valley. Distant. Lonely.

Inside, we clinked glasses anyway. Not to celebrate the future—but to honor what followed us into it.

Because in these hills, the past doesn’t stay behind when the year changes.

It walks with you.

Quietly.

Faithfully.

And as the clock struck one… I swear the house exhaled.

Welcome home, the night seemed to say.

Let’s see what this year remembers.

— Tibbi Ann 🖤✨