It was the belief that if you covered something in light and color, it could be something beautiful.
Tom had rolled his eyes at her embroidered stockings. Dismissed the wreath she wired by hand—three layers deep with dried orange and cinnamon—as “too much”.
Too much.
The phrase pulsed in her skull.
She’d laughed it off, thought he’d been teasing her. Until she’d been forced to see the truth.
She angled a chimney into place.
She couldn’t believe how blind she’d been. How foolish.
Shewas too much.
Here she was surrounded by evidence of it—this riot of a village, this furious love letter to the holiday he’d tried to civilize.
Every house was bursting with color. The rows were organic and the chimneys leaned—whimsical by design, not mistake. A riot of skill.
It was chaos.
And it was perfect.
The letters came out artfully, purposefully uneven. A city sign.
She glued it down.
She loved Christmas. She loved the music and the lights and the handmade everything. She loved the sugar rush and the chaos and the heart of it—the way people tried. The way they believed.
The memory of his letter flashed through her like a heartbeat.If I could go back,he’d written,I’d give you a different Christmas.
Tom hadn’t destroyed Christmas. He couldn’t.
He might have scuffed it, but with his letter he’d polished it back to a shine.
The proof was right here in front of her: a beautifully lopsided village made by a woman who still believed in light, even when it hurt to look at it.
She could still feel his arms around her on the porch, the press of his chest, solid and warm. That hug had felt like safety and apology and home all at once.
Lauren plugged in the string of lights. Tiny bulbs flickered on, gold and pink and green. The crooked little houses glowed from within, their windows bleeding color onto the table.
Her throat tightened.
She’d been building this village for hours, not realizing what she was really rebuilding.
Her belief.
Not in Tom.
In herself. In Christmas.
This piece wasn’t angry anymore. It was a celebration.
Lauren sat back, staring at the messy, brilliant thing she’d made.
It was garish and loud and absolutely alive.
She picked up her brush and painted one last flourish on the Welcome sign—tiny gold stars around the words.
