The Ghost of Christmas Past drifts through London's frozen streets, his candle flame steady in the bitter wind. The light pulls him forward with a purpose he does not question. It has never steered him wrong. Tonight it tugs harder than usual, dragging him toward something fierce. He passes shuttered shops and warm hearths without slowing. The flame flickers toward a grand stone building crowned with snow. Its brass sign glares through the dark: KEEP OUT. The ghost stops. This is the kind of heart that builds walls before doors. Inside, he knows, sits a man who has turned his life into a vault. Every memory locked away. Every tender moment buried under coins and ledgers. The candle burns brighter now, throwing light against the frozen windows. The resistance is so strong it hums in the air like a warning bell. The ghost steps through the wall without hesitation. His flame crown flares as he enters, casting gold across the counting house. The man at the desk does not look up. Not yet. But the past is already here, patient and unblinking, waiting to be seen.