"She'd been searching for this for fifteen years. Finally found it at an estate sale in Vermont."
I watched recognition break across Alex's face like a sunrise.
"That's—" His voice fractured. "That's my mother's. The one Dad sold after she died."
"I know. Your grandmother told me the whole story." I touched the brass winding key, worn smooth by generations of fingers. "She asked me to restore it. To add the family marks. She said when you finally came home, you'd need something to remind you that you'd never really left."
Alex reached for it with trembling hands. His fingers hovered over the wood, not quite touching, as if afraid it might disappear.
"She knew," he whispered. "She knew I'd come back."
"She never doubted it. Not for a second."
He finally let his fingers rest on the lid.
"It used to play 'White Christmas.'" Alex's thumb traced the edge. "Mom would wind it up every Christmas morning while Dad made pancakes. I'd sit on the floor in my pajamas and watch the little figure inside spin."
"Open it."
He lifted the lid. Inside, the tiny painted figure had been carefully repaired—a dancer in a red coat, arms raised mid-twirl. When Alex wound the key, the mechanism began to play.
Not "White Christmas."
"Silent Night."
Alex tensed. "She changed it."
"She had it modified before she brought it to me. Chose the song specifically." I moved closer, touching the small of his back. "She said it was the first carol you ever sang on stage. Age six, in the children's choir. She was in the front row."
"I remember. That was the same year I was inThe Nutcracker, my first acting performance." His voice was barely audible over the tinny notes. "I was so scared. She told me to find her face in the audience and sing just to her."
"She never missed a show after that."
Alex pressed the box to his chest, and his shoulders shook with silent sobs.
"She knew about your family, too, didn't she?" He managed the words between ragged breaths. "About the marks. The reindeer. All of it."
"She was one of maybe three people outside the Blitzen line who understood. She never told me how she learned—just said some magic recognizes its own." I turned him gently to face me, brushing tears from his cheeks with my thumbs. "She asked me to take care of you when you came home. Said you'd need someone patient."
A broken laugh escaped him. "She was matchmaking from beyond the grave."
"Apparently, matchmaking skills are common in Yuletide Valley."
"Damn." He clutched the music box tighter, the melody still playing, winding down slowly. "She planned all of this. The music box waiting here. You waiting here. She knew I'd fall apart at that audition and come running home, and she just—she set everything up so I'd land where I needed to be."
"I don't think she knew you'd fall apart. I think she knew you'd eventually realize this is where you belonged." I kissedhis forehead. "The falling apart was the path that got you here faster."
The music box played its final notes and fell silent. Alex stared at it for a long moment, then carefully set it on the workbench beside Johan's ancient tools—two impossible inheritances, side by side.
"She left me a letter," he said quietly. "With the will. I haven't been able to open it."
"Maybe you're ready now."
"Maybe." He turned back to me, eyes red-rimmed but clearer than I'd ever seen them. "Ben, I don't know what I'm going to tell Claire. I don't know if I'm staying or going or what any of this means for my career. But I know—" His voice steadied. "I know I'm not the same person who got on that train two weeks ago. And I know that whatever I decide, it's not going to be because I'm running away from something."
"I've been hoping to hear that."
The music box sat silent on my workbench, but I still heard its echo—"Silent Night," chosen by a woman who'd known her grandson would need to remember who he was before Broadway and all of the years of performing instead of living.
