"Thank you, mister," she whispers.
I crouch down to her level, suddenly finding words I didn't know I had. "You're welcome, sweetheart. Merry Christmas."
She beams and runs back to her parents, and when I stand, Faith is looking at me with such tenderness I almost can't breathe.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing. Just... you're really good at this."
"At what?"
"Being part of the world again."
I slide my arm around her waist, pulling her close. Around us, the town celebrates. There’s music and light andlife.But all I see isher.
"Think I found more than Christmas spirit," I say quietly.
Her laugh is soft against my chest, warm and perfect. "You planning to keep me, Lawson?"
"Darlin', that was decided the minute you knocked on my door and refused to leave."
"Good answer." She tilts her face toward mine. "Because I'm not going anywhere."
Snow begins to fall again… light, drifting,perfect. Around us, the town cheers as someone throws the switch and the tree lights up, thousands of bulbs blazing to life. But I barely notice.
Faith tilts her face toward mine, and for a moment the world goes quiet—just her smile, her warmth, her eyes full of everything I thought I'd lost.
I kiss her under the glow of the Christmas lights, her hand fisted in my coat, her smile pressed to mine.
And right then, surrounded by the magic we created together, I know I'll never spend another Christmas alone.
The mountain will always be my sanctuary.
But Faith is my home.
Epilogue
Beau
Tenyearslater
Snow falls steady outside the cabin, soft flakes catching the golden light that spills from the windows. Inside, the fire pops and hisses, filling the air with that familiar mix of pine smoke and sawdust. The scent of cinnamon cookies drifts from the kitchen—Faith’s doing, of course—and Christmas music hums low from the old radio.
“Easy there, bud,” I say, glancing over at the small workbench beside mine. “Let the sandpaper glide with the grain. Don’t fight it.”
Eli looks up, his face smudged with sawdust and pure determination. “Like this?”
“Exactly like that.”
He grins, missing one front tooth and proud as can be. “It’s gonna be perfect.”
“Looks that way,” I tell him, leaning closer to inspect his work. He’s sanding the wings of a wooden airplane, tongue poking out in concentration, the same way Faith does when she’s frosting cookies. His small hands are steady, careful—mine used to be that size when my dad first handed me a carving knife.
“Mom says you used to work all by yourself up here,” he says without looking up.
“Sure did.”
He frowns thoughtfully. “Wasn’t it lonely?”
