The walk to the Ridley house was not long, but Rowan took it slowly, as though distance might give him extra courage. Pinebridge’s streets lay softened under snow, the brick sidewalks dusted pale, the lamplight pooling in warm circles that made the night feel less like a void and more like a passage. His breath steamed in front of him, quickening whenever his thoughts ran ahead.
He held the book inside his coat as if it were a fragile thing, though it was not the binding he feared to damage. The weight of it pressed gently against his ribs, a reminder that he was doing something he had avoided for too long: choosing to show up.
He passed the square, now mostly empty. The fountain sat quiet beneath its evergreen garland. A few footprints crossed the snow where children had gathered earlier, already softening at the edges. The carolers were long gone, as was the storyteller. Pinebridge had returned to its Christmas Eve hush, a town holding its breath between one year and the next.
Rowan’s phone vibrated once in his pocket. He paused under a lamppost and pulled it out.
Mom: Finishing up. You still out?
Rowan stared at the message, warmth blooming unexpectedly in his chest. He typed with his thumb, hesitating only once.
Yes. I’m okay, stopping by the Ridley’s. I’ll be home later. Love you.
He sent it before he could rethink it, then slipped the phone away and kept walking, as if the act of answering honestly and without delay were part of a new discipline.
The hill toward Maren’s street rose gently, lined with festively-decorated maples whose branches wore small ridges of snow. Houses sat back from the road behind low fences and winter shrubs. Some windows glowed with tree lights; others were dark, curtains drawn, families gathered in rooms Rowan could not see.
When he reached the Ridley place, he slowed.
The porch light was on. A wreath hung on the door, evergreen and pinecones and a ribbon tied in exactly the same was as Mrs. Ridley had done for years. The yard was neat despite the season, walkway shoveled earlier, a thin dusting of new snow already settling across the cleared path.
Rowan stood at the bottom of the steps and looked up at the front door as though waiting for it to speak, perhaps to grant him permission to approach.
He could still turn around. He could still go back to his Mom’s little house, sit in the kitchen with a mug of tea, and tell himself that he’d tried. He could still let time do what it always did… turn urgency into delay, delay into distance.
Instead, Rowan climbed the steps.
At the top, he took out the book, the green cloth cover dull and familiar in his gloved hands. He held it openly, not tucked away, and raised his other hand to knock.
He knocked once, briskly, then again, softer.
The waiting that followed felt enormous, though it could not have been more than a few seconds. He listened for footsteps, for movement, for any sign that he wasn’t alone on this porch with his winter breath and his regrets.
At last, the lock turned. The door opened a few inches, just enough for warm air to spill out, scented with cinnamon and something savory… dinner long finished yet its traces lingering.
Maren’s face appeared in the gap.
For a moment, she only looked at him, as though her eyes were taking inventory: Rowan’s hair damp with not quite fully melted snow, his coat speckled white as well, and the book in his hands. Her expression was cautious, but not hard. Finally, her gaze lifted fully to his.
Rowan’s throat tightened. “Hi,” he managed.
Maren blinked once, slowly. “Rowan.”
The way she said his name was not accusation, but it wasn’t purely welcoming either. It was recognition. It was at least the glimmering of a door opening.
Maren stepped back, opening the door wide enough to grant passage.
“You’re slightly snowy,” she said, as if that were the strangest part of this. “Come in.”
Rowan stepped over the threshold.
The entryway was warm, the air thicker than outside, the house holding heat in defiance of (or perhaps due to) its age. He shook snow from his coat and tried not to look too wildly around, though everything felt instantly familiar: the coat hooks, the small table by the wall, the old framed photo of a younger Maren with missing front teeth, grinning into the camera.
A lamp in the living room cast soft light across the hallway. Somewhere deeper in the house, Rowan heard the soft yet distinct “click” of a kettle being set. The tree lights glowed faintly from the corner of the room, though the tree itself was partly obscured from where he stood.
Maren watched him quietly, arms loosely folded across her sweater. She looked older than the images from his memories, but not different. Still Maren. Still steady.
Rowan held the book out with both hands, an offering that felt too small for what he meant and too heavy for the moment.
“I…” He stopped, swallowed. All of the words he’d rehearsed over all of the years evaporated. What remained was simpler and more honest.
“I’m sorry,” Rowan said. “I should have been here.”
Maren’s shoulders rose slightly with a breath, then fell. Her gaze dropped to the book.
“What is that?” she asked, her voice careful in a different way now.
Rowan looked down at the green cover, as if seeing it anew. “It’s… The Night Before Christmas,” he said. “Not… not the one. But like it.” He hesitated, then added, softer, “I heard it in the square tonight. And I remembered… I remembered your dad reading it.”
Maren’s eyes flickered, just once, and Rowan saw grief move across her face like a cloud passing over the moon. She blinked, steadying herself, and reached out to take the book.
Her fingers lingered on the worn cloth. She turned it slightly, reading the title, tracing the dulled gold letters. For a long moment she said nothing. Rowan told himself to hold still, to let her have her reaction without expectation.
When Maren finally spoke, her voice was quiet. “You remember that.”
Rowan nodded. “Of course I do.”
Maren’s throat moved as she swallowed. “It was… one of his favorite things,” she said, and the word was landed like a stone.
Rowan felt his eyes sting. He looked away quickly, focusing on the familiar hallway wall, the shadow cast by the lamp.
“I didn’t know what to do,” he admitted. “After… after he died. After I…” He faltered, but forced himself to finish. “…after I didn’t come. And I meant to. I really did. And then I… did what I always do.”
Maren didn’t react, but kept staring at the book.
“And I hate that about myself,” Rowan continued. “I’ve hated it for years. I keep thinking I’ll be different, and then I’m not. And I…” His voice cracked, but he steadied it with effort. “I don’t want to be like that anymore.”
Maren’s gaze shifted to study him, her expression unreadable for a heartbeat. Then she let out a slow breath, a meditative exhalation.
“Rowan,” she said, softer, “I’ve known you since we were seven. You’ve always been like this. You get overwhelmed and you pull back. That’s… you.”
Rowan’s shame surged again. “That doesn’t make it okay.”
“No,” Maren agreed. “It doesn’t. It hurts. Especially this time.”
Rowan’s eyes closed briefly. The honesty was a relief and a wound all at once.
Maren continued, voice steady. “But I didn’t think you didn’t care,” she said. “I thought you were scared. And busy. And maybe… something else?”
Rowan opened his eyes. “I was… ashamed.”
“Thought as much.”
The simplicity of it, of her saying she knew, unlocked something in Rowan’s chest. He exhaled shakily, realizing how long he’d been braced against her anger, anger that he’d only conjured in his own mind.
“I didn’t know if you wanted to see me,” Rowan confessed. “I didn’t know if you were done.”
Maren’s eyebrows lifted slightly, as if the idea surprised her. “Done?” she repeated.
Rowan spread his hands helplessly. “I don’t know. People… people get tired.”
Maren’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a frown. “I did get tired,” she admitted. “I got tired of being the one who reached out first. I got tired of wondering if I was worth the effort to you.”
“And then,” Maren added, quieter, “Dad died, and everything else felt… smaller. Like none of that kind of stuff mattered. Except it did, because suddenly I realized all the things we put off can become permanent.”
Rowan nodded, swallowing hard. “I know.”
Maren looked down at the book again, then at Rowan. “Why now?” she asked.
Rowan’s gaze drifted toward the living room, toward the faint glow of the Christmas tree lights, toward the warmth of the house that had once felt like his as much as hers. He thought of the store, with its quiet shelves, the kept things, the way the world had seemed to pause as he stepped inside.
He did not know how to explain that without sounding ridiculous. So he told the truth that mattered.
“Because I realized I’ve been living like there’s always more time,” he said. “And there isn’t.”
Maren stared at him for a long moment. Then she nodded once, as if accepting something that had been offered: not the book, but Rowan’s intention.
“Okay,” she said simply.
The word made Rowan’s eyes sting again. He blinked hard.
Maren stepped back, turning slightly toward the living room. “Come sit,” she said. “Mum’s in the kitchen. She’ll probably hear you in a minute and come out and cry all over you.”
Rowan let out a small laugh. “Yeah?” he said.
Maren’s mouth finally softened into something that was, unmistakably, a smile. It was small and weary, but real. “Yeah.”
Rowan followed her into the living room.
The Christmas tree stood in the corner, its lights warm, ornaments a mix of old and new. Rowan recognized several: a small wooden bird with one wing carved just so; a tin soldier hanging from a branch by a loop of string; a snow globe ornament that looked suspiciously like the one he’d seen in the store, though this one was intact.
He stopped short, struck by the sight.
Maren noticed. Her smile wavered. “We kept a lot,” she said softly. “Dad… liked tradition. Mum too.”
Rowan nodded, unable to speak.
Maren sat in her traditional spot on the couch, the book in her lap. Rowan took spot at the other end, his traditional spot. The cushions felt different, yet familiar. Time had not taken away their comfort.
For a moment they simply looked at each other, the silence between them no longer filled with avoidance, but with the awkwardness of beginnings.
Then the kettle whistled faintly from the kitchen, and footsteps approached.
Helen appeared in the doorway, a dish towel in her hands. She took one look at Rowan and stopped as if the world had tilted.
“Rowan?” she said, voice catching on the name.
Rowan stood quickly, almost knocking his knees against the chair. “Hi, Mrs. Ridley.”
Helen crossed the room in three swift steps and pulled him into a hug that smelled like soap and cinnamon and home.
“Oh, love,” she whispered. “Oh, love.”
Rowan’s throat closed. He shut his eyes and let himself be held, returning the embrace.
When Helen finally released him, she held his face between her hands, studying him fiercely. “You look thin,” she scolded, though her eyes were wet. “Sit down. I’ll make tea. And then you can tell us where you’ve been hiding yourself.”
Rowan glanced at Maren. Maren nodded. A quick gesture, small and sure. Rowan sat.
Helen moved back toward the kitchen, wiping at her cheeks with the edge of her towel and muttering something about “these blasted onions” though no onions were visible anywhere. Maren smiled at Rowan, mouthed I told you so, then opened the book carefully, like someone touching a fragile memory.
Rowan watched her fingers trace the inscription. He saw her swallow, saw her blink quickly.
“Do you want…” Rowan began, then hesitated, unsure if he had the right to ask.
Maren looked up. “What?”
Rowan’s voice was quiet. “Do you want to read it?” he asked. “Like your dad used to?”
Maren glanced toward the kitchen as if checking whether her mother would object, then back to Rowan. “We can,” she said. “If you want.”
Rowan nodded. “I do.”
Maren adjusted herself on the couch, opened to the first page, and drew in a breath.
Rowan listened.
Her voice was not Thomas’s voice. It didn’t have his depth or his steady cadence. But it carried something of him anyway — his warmth, his gentleness, the way he made the words feel like a promise rather than a performance.
Outside, snow drifted lazily past the window, catching the lamplight. Inside, the room held its warmth. Rowan felt the story settle around them like a familiar blanket, and for the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to believe that some things weren’t broken beyond repair.
They were simply waiting.
And tonight, at last, he had come back.
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