There was a time when Christmas was not announced by a timeline overflowing with notifications, nor by a phone constantly vibrating in our pocket. It was announced by a sound. A short, restrained beep. The phone lay somewhere nearby—on the table, on the couch—and the moment you heard that sound, you already knew what would appear on the screen. You picked it up, pressed a few buttons, and read a message almost identical to many others: “Merry Christmas.” Sometimes it came with a smiley face. Sometimes it was written entirely in capital letters. Occasionally it arrived split into two messages, simply because it did not fit. And yet, that simple message was enough. What mattered was not what it said exactly, but the fact that it had been sent.
