The Spirit didn't show him ghosts of his past. Instead, it touched the stone walls of the manor. Suddenly, the walls became transparent. Silas saw the town below. He saw the baker giving away the last loaf of bread to a family with less. He saw the widow Miller lighting a single candle for her late husband. "They are freezing," Silas muttered, his breath hitching.
"Silas," the creature rumbled, its voice like a rockslide. "I am the Spirit of the Stone. You have spent years hardening your heart to protect it from pain. Tonight, we see what happens when a heart becomes a tomb." A Stone Cold Christmas
He woke up on his floor, the morning sun reflecting off the frost on his windows. He wasn't transformed into a saint overnight, but the "stone" had a fissure in it. Silas walked to his woodshed, loaded a sled with every log he had, and began the long trek down the mountain. The Spirit didn't show him ghosts of his past
Around midnight, a rhythmic thud-thud-thud echoed through the halls. It wasn't a knock; it sounded like boulders grinding together. Silas grabbed a candle and headed to the foyer. Standing there was a figure draped in heavy, frost-covered grey. Its face was a mask of jagged slate. Silas saw the town below
Silas sat in his manor, the hearth cold. He didn’t believe in wasting wood on warmth he didn't think he deserved. To Silas, Christmas was a ledger—a day where people spent money they didn't have to buy feelings that didn't last.