"I love you too." My voice was ragged. "In case that wasn't clear."
"It was getting there."
"I've loved you since you fell on Holly's doorstep and looked up at me like I'd hung the moon, even though you were covered in snow and your dignity was bleeding out on the ice."
"That's very specific."
"I'm a craftsman. We notice details."
He kissed me again, softer this time, and something settled in my chest—a piece I hadn't known was missing finally clicked into place.
A soft chime interrupted us.
We both froze. The sound wasn't the workshop's usual settling or wind against the windows. It was coming from the wood itself—a resonance I'd heard only once before, the night my grandfather passed and every tool in the shop sang a single note of farewell.
"Ben." Alex's voice was barely a whisper. "Look."
I turned.
Every toy in my workshop was glowing.
Not brightly—nothing so obvious. More like candlelight, warmth made visible. The rocking horse Alex had touched. The music box I'd restored. The train with its fresh coat of paint, the teddy bear with new glass eyes, and the small carved animals waiting for their trip to the children's ward.
And on each one, marks were spreading—my patterns and Alex's woven together, filling surfaces that had been bare minutes ago.
"That's not possible." I moved toward the nearest piece, a small wooden elephant I'd carved last week. Designs I'd never made covered its surface. My healing marks were there, but threaded through them were Alex's flowing spirals, and something else too. Something that looked almost like musical notation, or the path of birds in flight.
"They're combining." Alex had picked up the music box, turning it over in his hands. "Your marks and mine. They're finding each other."
I took the music box from him and opened the lid.
The tune that played was richer than before—not only mechanically correct but resonant, full, aching with something that made my throat tight. It sounded like coming home after a long journey, like finding someone waiting with the light on.
"The children are going to feel this." I set the box down carefully. "When they hold these toys—Marcus, Sophie, all of them—they're going to feel everything we put into them."
"Is that safe?"
I reached for Thomas's journal, paging through until I found the entry I'd glimpsed earlier. "Listen to this:The deepest magic is not in the carving but in the intention. Marks made with love carry love forward. They do not overpower—they support. They remind the holder of what their heart already knows."
"What the heart already knows," Alex repeated softly. "Like the homecoming marks."
"Like you." I set the journal down and cupped his face in my hands. "You came here thinking you'd failed and thinking you had nothing left. But your heart knew you were coming home. The marks helped you see it."
He leaned into my touch, eyes closing. "I'm terrified, Ben. Not of the magic—of deserving it. What if I'm not—"
The workshop door banged open.
We sprang apart as Holly burst in, snow swirling around her patchwork shawl, her eyes wild behind her spectacles. She wasn't alone.
Behind her, silent on the snowy ground, stood two reindeer.
I recognized them instantly—the pair from the festival. The buck who'd tracked my movements across the crowded square, who'd stamped out recognition patterns that matched the oldest marks in Johan's journals. His companion stood beside him, breath fogging in the cold air, both of them watching Alex with an intensity that raised every hair on my arms.
"They insisted." Holly's voice was breathless, higher than usual. "Started making a fuss outside my shop an hour ago—wouldn't eat, wouldn't settle. I tried everything. Finally, Donner just started walking, and Prancer followed, and they led me here." She pressed a hand to her chest. "Ben, they've never left the festival grounds before. Not once in twenty years. Not for anyone."
The buck—Donner, apparently—stepped forward. His hooves made soft, careful, deliberate sounds on my workshop floor. He moved past Holly, past me, directly toward Alex.
Alex froze. "Ben?"
