The Globe That Wouldn’t Stay Broken

Alone in the charity shop, Karen watched the snow fall against the window, each drifting flake a reminder that life had a way of delivering things you hadn’t asked for. She was counting the minutes until closing when the door opened, and the man in black stepped inside—the one who always arrived too late and lingered too long, a small frustration in a day already full of them.

The last globe had been perched precariously near the door, and when he brushed past, it toppled. He stooped, long coat obscuring the breakage, and even offered to pay for it. “A fitting end, I suppose,” he murmured, gazing down as if it was cursed.

Karen just wanted him gone. She couldn’t face lingering conversation; all she wanted was to cash up and make the shop safe before heading home. Taking the hint, he scuttled off into the early darkness. Locking the door, she watched him melt into the gloom along the high street, her mind already on the mess waiting behind her.

Her knees creaked as she bent to gather the fragments. Normally, she’d have wrapped a broken item in newspaper and binned it, but this break ran clean down the middle—the kind that could be mended if one had the patience, which she didn’t. Twenty years managing the town’s busiest charity shop had stretched her almost to breaking point.

Inside the globe, the pieces were untouched: a tiny church, a smear of fake snow clinging to the steeple, a tree, and Santa himself. A small puddle had pooled onto the linoleum floor, catching the strip light glare. A few clumps of white snow had escaped.

For some reason, holding it—staring at the wreckage of something meant to be pretty, festive, even joyful—made Karen wistful. Chiding herself for sentimentality, she fetched the dustpan and brush.

That night, the broken globe visited her dreams. Silly, really. She’d seen far worse: chipped mugs, shattered plates, the odd decapitated porcelain shepherd that had collected dust in someone’s attic in a box of dusty donations. Things you wouldn’t mention in polite company—except after a few drinks. Yet somehow, this…felt different.

When Karen got home, the muted TV flickered across the living room. Tom, slept on the couch, mouth slightly open, snoring like a newborn. Up close, the illness had carved lines in his face, hollowed permanent shadows under his eyes. The virus he’d never fully recovered from had taken its toll—on both of them. Karen yearned to turn back time—five years to be exact— before the fatigue, before the endless hours spent resting but rarely feeling better.

Again, she wondered if she’d stayed too long in the same job. Twenty years treading the same floors, dealing with endless donations as the town’s other shops closed around her. On a half-deserted high street, the pressures only grew: getting cover, meeting impossible expectations from Head Office, customers constantly demanding reductions, and donors handing over sacks that should’ve gone straight to the refuge tip acting as if they contained the Crown Jewels. Sometimes she longed to tell them where to put their rubbish, but that was clearly above her pay grade.

Still, she kept telling herself she was making a difference—and she was—but mostly it felt as if she was fading, just like the back office walls.

***

Washing up dishes later at home—she’d never got round to getting a dishwasher—she thought about the globe. A tiny world, shattered. A bit like life. What was the point of saving something clearly broken? Of clinging onto the pointless? She should have binned it. So why hadn’t she?

Contrary to popular belief, the shop was not a repair service for broken donations or the broken-hearted—though there were enough of them. With stock piling high and never enough help, there simply wasn’t the time. Still, the next morning, stepping into the dim back office before flicking on the lights, Karen’s eyes caught the glare of the damaged globe. It sat on the desk, peeping out of a box—just as she’d left it. Inside, the two halves gleamed faintly, as though lit by some hidden light.

On impulse, Karen removed it from the box, added water to one half, found some quick-fix glue, and carefully worked along the seam. After a few minutes, the crack sealed neatly. Santa stood proudly, sack hoisted over his shoulder beneath the tree, and the church remained upright, its roof just brushing the glass. It looked…perfect.

Pleased with her handiwork, she shook the globe. Snow drifted gently. A faint tinkling, like distant bells, sounded for half a heartbeat—then stopped. It felt strangely… warm. Warm in a way that shouldn’t be possible.

She couldn’t resist another shake. “Almost as good as new,” she muttered, setting it on the shelf above her desk. The warmth lingered, like a small pulse beneath her fingers.

The day unfolded in its usual rhythm. The shop swelled with customers and endless donations. Yet every so often, Karen caught the faintest sigh of movement from the shelf. Once, she turned and the snow inside was swirling—even though she hadn’t touched it. Must’ve been the breeze from the back door, she told herself firmly.

Later, while pricing a rail of clothes, she sensed a light stirring. At the base of the church, a new detail had appeared: another figure.

Tiny—barely a shadow—but unmistakably there. A woman in a red coat, standing by the church door.

Her breath caught. Ridiculous as it was—the coat looked exactly like her own—the red one Tom had given her years ago, the one she still wore on the coldest days.

She leaned closer. The detail was extraordinary—far finer than cheap plastic ever allowed. The tiny head was tilting slightly upwards, as though listening for something.

A trick of the light, she told herself. Nothing more. Or maybe she was just exhausted; lately sleep came in thin, ragged scraps that never refreshed her.

That evening, Tom moved slowly round the living room, greeting her with a kiss and asking about her day. Amazed, she sat as he poured her a drink. For the first time in ages, they didn’t talk about his chronic fatigue.

“You’ve always been a good person,” he said. “One of the reasons I fell for you.”

“Maybe I just like fixing things,” she replied, unsure.

He reached over, squeezed her hand. “You’ve fixed more than you realise.”

***

The week rolled by, grey and drizzly. The globe stayed on the shelf above Karen’s desk. She found herself glancing at it more often. The figure in red seemed to move—sometimes closer to the church door, sometimes further away. One morning, she could’ve sworn a hazy, yellow light came from the tiny windows.

She told herself she was becoming fanciful. Seeing things that weren’t there.

Sarah, one of the volunteers, noticed her staring. “You all right, love?”

“Fine,” Karen said quickly. “Just thinking.”

Sarah grinned. “Careful. Too much thinking can be dangerous, you know.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Karen said with a small laugh.

Two days before Christmas Eve, she came in early to restock shelves. The shop was cold, her breath misting in front of her. The globe glowed faintly.

Not switching on the light, she moved toward it as if in a trance—and gasped. This time, there was no doubt: the snow swirled on its own. The woman in red wasn’t alone. A man stood beside her, tall and sprightly. Together they faced the church, warm, amber light spilling from its doorway—like the street lamps outside Karen’s home.

It couldn’t be. And yet—it was.

Gingerly, she touched the glass—then snatched her hand back. It was beautiful. Terrifying. Utterly impossible…

She knew, suddenly, there was only one thing to do.

That evening, after closing, she picked up the globe, wrapped it firmly in newspaper, and carried it out into the cold.

“You’re just glass and plastic,” she murmured, dropping it into a garbage bag. “Broken things take up too much space.”

Still, before tying the bag, she hesitated. A faint shimmer of light pulsed through the paper.

Wondering if she had become as cracked as the original break, she knotted the bag tight and left it by the fence. Outside, snow was falling heavily. It landed silently on her coat and on the black bags stacked nearby. She looked up, breathed in the crisp air, and felt—unexpectedly—lighter.

The garbage collectors would take everything first thing in the morning. By then, the globe—with its shifting light and impossible figures—would be gone.

Christmas Eve was relentless. By mid-afternoon, shelves were half-empty, and Karen moved through the shop, exhausted but proud. At five o’clock, she closed the till. Sarah waved from the back.

“Happy Christmas, boss. Make sure you get a proper rest, yeah?”

“I’ll try,” Karen whispered. Physically shattered—but her spirit felt light.

The shop fell silent. Only the fairy lights glittered along the window. She went to fetch her coat—and froze.

Something gleamed on the counter in the half-light.

The snow globe.

Whole.

Not patched. Not cloudy with glue. Perfect. The snow drifted in slow, golden spirals.

Karen’s throat tightened. She glanced at the bins outside—black bags sealed, untouched. When she looked back, the globe still glowed.

Without knowing why, she carried it to the front window and set it among the fairy lights. Outside, the snow had clustered and formed a thick white carpet.

And then she saw them.

The couple walked hand in hand from the church, leaving tiny footprints behind. Snow fell softly, dusting their path in gold and silver. Karen watched until her eyes stung, until peace enveloped her like a blanket.

That night, at home, she told Tom everything. He listened with wide, startled eyes.

“Maybe it’s a sign,” he said, at last.

“A sign of what?”

“That you can let go. You don’t have to carry everything alone. It’ll take time, but we’ll find a way. I’m not giving up. I’ve always been a fighter—just like you.”

Karen smiled through tears. “Or maybe it’s just magic.”

“Maybe that’s the same thing,” he whispered.

After Christmas, she returned the globe to the back office shelf—a tranquil centrepiece among donated decorations and old books. Occasionally, someone peered in and remarked on its beauty. The bolder ones asked if it was for sale. Karen simply shook her head.

“That one’s definitely not for sale.”

When the shop was empty, or her heart felt heavy, the snow began to move—slow, shimmering, alive—stirred by an invisible breath.

The little church glowed softly.

The woman in red.

The man beside her.

A small world repaired.

A gift she never expected—yet the only one she truly needed. A quiet reminder that some things return, even when we think we’ve lost them forever.

And sometimes, even the smallest, most ordinary corners of the world hold miracles waiting to be mended. If you listen carefully, you can almost hear the snow fall.