I pressed the letter against my chest and exhaled shakily.God.He still didn’t see it. Still didn’t understand that he alreadyisworth finding.
Worth waiting for.
Worth hoping for.
Not because he threw a punch or stood up to a monster that night. But because he listened. Because he wrote. Because he told the truth even when it cost him something.
Every time I hear boots on the stairs, I sit up straighter.
Every time the buzzer rings downstairs, I freeze.
Every time someone knocks on a door in the hallway, my breath catches. Nothing yet. But the day’s not over.
As Evening Settled In, The World Outside My Window Went Soft With Falling Snow. The streetlights haloed each flake like it was something miraculous. Cars hissed over the slush. A dog barked somewhere down the street.
Inside, the tree glowed like it belonged here, like it had always belonged. I stood and walked to the small side table near the door, where a tiny, wrapped gift sat on top. I bought it three nights ago. Didn’t mean to. Just saw it and knew instantly that it was his.
A vintage compass. Brass casing, a little rust around the edges, real glass cover. The needle still sharp and steady. No batteries, no GPS, no modern conveniences. Just an arrow and true north.
I’d found it in the window of a thrift shop, wedged between a stack of old books and a chipped ceramic mug. I’d stepped insidewithout thinking and bought it before the owner even had time to say hello.
It reminded me of him. A man who feels lost and steady at the same time. A man who survived by instinct. A man who keeps moving, even when he doesn’t know where home is.
I tied a little card to the gift with twine:
“So, you always find your way back. – M”
When I pick it up now, the tag flutters slightly, the handwriting small and careful, the ink a little smudged from my thumb. I smile at it, even though I feel like an idiot. Because what if he doesn’t come? What if I misunderstood everything? What if I’m just a letter to him, an escape hatch in a world that took too much from him? What if he steps out into the snow on his first day of freedom and decides not to look back at the girl who only knew him through paper?
The thought settles cold in my stomach. I press my palm against it like I can smooth it away. Still… I leave the porch light on. Just in case. Just in case he finds his way here. Just in case he chooses this door out of all the doors in the world. Just in case hope wasn’t foolish after all.
The tree lights blink softly as the hours stretch. I do little things to distract myself, rearrange the ornaments, fluff the couch cushions, wipe down the counters, even though I cleaned them twice already.
But every so often, I walk to the window and peer through the curtain. The street below glistens under the snow. A few people hurry past, bundled in their coats, heads bowed against the cold. No leather jacket. No tall figure. No familiar silhouette.
The clock on the wall creeps toward midnight. December 23rd is almost over. My chest tightens. I tell myself he probably had to go through paperwork, or meetings, or half a dozen hurdlesthe system throws at a man who’s trying to leave it behind. I tell myself he might not even have a ride. Might not know how to get here. He might… not be ready. And if he’s not, that has to be okay. Right?
I sigh and turn off the lamps, leaving only the tree to light the room. The shadows dance across the walls, soft and golden, almost tender. The couch looks inviting for once. The blanket draped over the back smells faintly of lavender from the last time I washed it.
I pull it down, wrap it around myself, and curl into the corner of the cushions. The compass sits on the table by the door, waiting. The porch light glows. The snow falls. I close my eyes. I don’t mean to fall asleep. I mean to wait. Just a little longer. Another hour. Maybe two. But exhaustion pulls at me, the emotional kind, the kind that wraps itself around your bones and whispers,rest. My breathing evens out. The lights blur behind my eyelids. The warmth of the blanket seeps into my skin. And in the quiet glow of the Christmas tree, the last thought drifting through my mind is not fear or doubt.
It’s simply:
Please let him come.
And then sleep takes me, soft as falling snow.
Twelve~Her Door
Jaxon
The air hits different when you’re free. It stings. It’s colder, sharper, like the world’s daring you to feel every inch of it all at once, like it wants to wake every numb piece of you that prison pressed flat. I stand there for a second, just inside the outer gate, on the public side of the chain-link, the side without bars or cameras or concrete walls breathing down your neck, and inhale until my lungs ache.
Freedom doesn’t taste like I thought it would. It tastes like metal. Fear. Hope. All mixed up with winter. I step fully out of the gates with nothing but a duffel bag the guards shoved at me, and a folded piece of paper with her street name scribbled on it. Not even the full address, just a street and a hunch.
No family waiting. No warm hugs or second chances or speeches about “fresh starts.” Just me. And the thought ofher. For a moment, I stand there stupidly, like I’m waiting for someone to tap my shoulder and tell me there’s been a mistake. That I’m not supposed to be out here yet. That release was a cruel joke.
But the guard is already walking back inside. The buzzer is already sounding as the gate begins to shut. The cold is already creeping through the flimsy jacket they gave me. This is real. I adjust the strap of the duffel and begin walking.
