"Smart woman." The snowflake spun faster.
"Yeah. She was."
"Alex!" Holly's voice rang out as she swept through the stage door, arms full of what looked like costume pieces and bottles of something that glowed faintly amber. "Perfect timing. I need your opinion on these doublet modifications."
She deposited everything on the prop table, then looked at the still-spinning snowflake. She offered a knowing smile. "The second night is always about rediscovery. The valley remembers what you loved, even if you've forgotten."
"Second night?"
"Of the Twelve Nights, dear." She patted my hand. "Last night was the first—when the veil begins to thin, and old magic stirs. Tonight the valley starts whispering to those who need to hear it." She glanced toward where Ben was working. "Or shouting, in some cases."
"Holly—" I started, but she was already bustling away.
"Mrs. Brubaker, those sleeves need to be fuller! And someone check the star on the tree—it's listing to the left again."
Ben appeared at my elbow with an armful of garland. "Help me with this? It could use someone with an eye for detail."
I could have said no, remembering that I had a return ticket to New York and getting invested was dangerous.
Instead, I followed him up the stage steps.
"Thanks for this." He handed me a strand. The garland seemed to shimmer. "Yesterday, when you were directing 'Plastic Alligator'—I've never seen the cast that focused. That alive."
"They're good kids."
"They're okay kids with a great director." He smiled at me. "Even if he won't admit that's what he is yet."
"What if I freeze when I'm directing? There's precedent for that."
"Then we'll handle it." Ben's voice was matter-of-fact. "Holly keeps chamomile tea backstage. Mrs. Brubaker has seen everything in forty years of community theater. And I'll be right here in the wings."
"You can't promise that."
"No." He adjusted a section of garland, his hand covering mine. "But the valley can. It brought you home for a reason, Alex. Why not trust that?"
A crash across the stage broke the moment. Jack had attempted a dramatic knee slide and taken out three chairs.
"I meant to do that!" He called out.
"Of course you did, dear." Charice helped him up, laughing. "Very method. Nothing says romance like a potential concussion."
I turned back to the garland, my throat tight. "One more adjustment here..."
"And here?" Ben's hand stayed on mine, guiding it to another section. His thumb touched the inside of my wrist, pressing gently.
"Yeah." My voice was rough. "Right there."
We worked in silence for a moment, our hands moving in concert. Then, I glanced down and froze.
Tiny white buds were forming along the artificial pine, unfurling as I watched. Real flowers, delicate as snow, appeared where there should have been only plastic.
"Ben—"
"I see it." His voice was quiet, and his hand tightened over mine.
The buds bloomed fully—tiny white blossoms that smelled like cinnamon. They spread along the garland where our hands touched, multiplying, creating something impossible and perfect.
"What's happening?" I whispered.
