"They are alive," the Spirit countered. "They crack, they bleed, and they heal. You, Silas, are merely preserved."
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. A Stone Cold Christmas
The Spirit led him to the town square, where a statue of the town’s founder stood. Silas realized the statue looked more human than he felt. He reached out to touch the cold bronze, and for the first time in decades, he felt a spark of shame. It was a heat so intense it felt like his chest was cracking open. "They are alive," the Spirit countered
"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." It wasn't a knock; it sounded like boulders