"It's just a bandage, Ben."
"Not for this." I turned my hand over in his. "For all of it."
Reluctantly, I pulled back and gestured to the workbench. "Where was I? Right—mysterious stranger in red..."
"Finish the story," Alex said softly. "I want to hear it."
"The next morning, Johan found himself at the edge of this valley. The snow had stopped, the sun was shining, and reindeer tracks led away from the cave." I shrugged.
"He always claimed they went straight up into the sky."
"That's..." Alex paused. "Actually kind of beautiful. Even if it's only a story."
"Is it?" I asked quietly. "You held my hand last night, and the streetlights glowed brighter. You walked into this theater, andevery light turned on to welcome you. The valley brought you home, Alex. Maybe it's not just a story."
He looked away, but not before I saw fear flash across his face. "I'm not staying." The words came out fierce, defensive. "This is—"
"Observing. I know." My voice carried a gentle tone. "No pressure."
Alex spoke again—his tone raw and honest. "I can't— I've already failed at everything I built. My career and my grandmother's expectations. I can't fail at this, too."
"This?"
"You." He said it so softly that I almost missed it. "Whatever this is between us. I can't start something I'm going to ruin."
"What if you don't ruin it?" I asked. "What if the only thing you're failing at is giving yourself permission to be imperfect?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he spotted a partially disassembled ornate music box. "What's this?"
"Local family heirloom." I carefully lifted the intricate mechanism, glad for something to do with my hands. "Their grandmother wound it every Christmas Eve to play 'Silent Night.' The timing gear stripped after so many years, but I fabricated a replacement from period-correct brass."
"May I?" When I nodded, Alex handled the piece with careful precision.
He traced the delicate gears with his thumb. "We had something similar. Before my mom died." The practiced charm fell away completely. "She'd wind it up Christmas morning, and we'd listen to it while opening presents. After she was gone, Dad sold it. Said it hurt too much to hear it."
"I'm sorry." My words were inadequate. "I lost my parents ten years ago. Car accident."
He gazed into my eyes, and we stood there in shared understanding. His fingers brushed mine as he started to hand the music box back. The mechanism began to play.
Both of us froze.
"Silent Night" filled the workshop, tinny and sweet, even though we hadn't wound the music box.
"How..." Alex whispered.
I carefully took the mechanism from him, and it stopped. I handed it back, and when his skin touched mine again, the music resumed.
"It's us," I said quietly. "Together. The valley's trying to tell us something."
"That's not—" He didn't let go. Neither did I. We stood there, hands joined around an impossible music box playing an impossible song, and I watched his defenses crumble.
"What is this place?" His voice cracked. "What's happening?"
"Magic. Healing. Second chances." I moved closer. "The Twelve Nights, when the veil between hope and reality is thin. The valley knows what you need, Alex. What we both need."
The music swelled, and tools on the workbench began to hum in harmony—saw blades resonating, hammers vibrating gently, and wood singing. The Christmas lights strung across the rafters started to pulse in time with the melody.
"I failed," Alex said suddenly. "I had a panic attack on stage in front of fifty people. I couldn't breathe, couldn't sing, couldn't—" His voice broke. "I'm not the person who left this town. I'm not golden anymore. I'm just..."
