Christmas Morning
For A Second, I Think I’m Dreaming. The smell hits me first. Cinnamon. Sugar. Warm dough. It curls under the door, wraps around me where I’m still half-slumped on the couch. It’s soft and thick and heavy with memory. For a heartbeat, it’s ten years ago, and I’m in a different kitchen, my mom banging cupboards, Cody whining about how long breakfast is taking, and Christmas music playing too loud on the radio.
Then I blink. The ceiling above me isn’t cracked concrete. It’s off-white, with a faint shadow from the tree lights flickering in the corner of the room. The blanket around my shoulders is soft, not scratchy wool. There’s no buzz of fluorescent bulbs. No distant clang of metal doors. Just the low hum of a fridge. Thefaint rattle of the radiator. And a sound I didn’t realize I’d missed until now. Humming. Off-key. Soft. Familiar in a way I’ve never heard before.
I remember everything all at once. Her opening the door. The warmth of her arms around me. The way the tree glowed last night was like something out of a picture book. Talking on the couch until my body refused to stay upright anymore.
I rub a hand over my face, trying to wipe the sleep from my eyes and the disbelief from my brain. My neck twinges from sleeping sitting up, but it’s a good ache, a normal ache. The kind you get from falling asleep somewhere you chose.
The compass box is still on the table, just within arm’s reach, the tag with her messy little message visible under the twine.
So, you always find your way back.
Guess it worked. I unfold my legs and stand slowly. The blanket slips to my elbows, trailing behind me like a cape. I adjust it around my shoulders and follow the smell and the humming.
Her kitchen isn’t big. But somehow, it feels like more than enough. She’s standing by the oven, bare feet on the cool tile, hair a mess, like she dragged her fingers through it a dozen times and then gave up. The sweater she’s wearing is at least three sizes too big, sleeves hanging over her hands, hem skimming the tops of her thighs. It’s the color of oatmeal and comfort.
She looks like peace. Like every Christmas card I ever saw, that made my chest hurt without knowing why. She doesn’t see me at first. She’s focused on scooping something sticky out of a pan, cinnamon rolls, gooey and golden, steam rising off them. Her humming stutters and stops occasionally when she concentrates, then starts again. Something in my chest pulls tight and then loosens. I’ve seen a lot of things. Bar fights. Accidents. The inside of cells and courtrooms, and houses wherepeople forgot how to be kind. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything that hits me like this.
She turns, pan in hand, and freezes when she realizes I’m standing in the doorway. Her eyes go wide, then soft. And then she smiles. Not the polite kind. Not the careful one she uses when she’s pretending, she’s fine. The kind that makes me feel like maybe I walked into the right life after all.
“Merry Christmas,” she says.
I almost choke on the words. They’re simple. Stupidly simple. But they land like a fist to the gut. No one’s said that to me in years, not like this, anyway. Not without irony or obligation. Not as a gift.
“Merry Christmas,” I manage. My voice sounds rough, like it hasn’t had a reason to say those words in a long time.
She gestures with the pan toward the counter. “I made the rolls. Burned my tongue again.”
A laugh catches me off guard. It rumbles out before I can stop it. “It wouldn't be Christmas if you didn’t,” I say.
Her cheeks flush, pleased. “Exactly.”
She sets the pan down and grabs two plates from the cabinet. The motions are easy, practiced. She moves like she’s alone but talks like she’s used to company. That does something strange to me, too, this idea that she’s letting me into patterns she formed while I wasn’t here.
“You want coffee or tea?” she asks.
“Tea,” I say. “That stuff you made last night was the best thing I’ve tasted in a long time.”
“You’ve been in prison,” she points out. “The bar’s low.”
“Still counts,” I reply.
She smiles to herself as she pours water into the kettle and sets it on. Then she uses a knife to pry the rolls out of the pan, swearing under her breath when some of the icing sticks. I lean against the doorframe and just watch. The way she tucks her hairbehind her ear with the back of her wrist, so she won’t get icing in it. The way she mutters at the rolls like they can hear her. The way she sways a little, unconsciously, to the music that isn’t playing.
I’ve never felt more like an intruder and more like I belong in the same breath. She plates two rolls and slides one across the table toward the chair opposite hers.
“Come on,” she says. “Before they get cold and I have to pretend they still taste good.”
I sit. The chair creaks a little under my weight. The table between us is small, scratched in a few places, and one corner is slightly chipped. It’s… perfect. She sits down too, curling one foot up under her, the other braced on the floor. Steam curls up from the rolls, thick and sweet. My stomach growls loudly enough that she hears it.
A grin flashes across her face. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
We eat in silence at first. Not the awkward kind. Not thewe don’t know what to say to each other in daylightkind. Just… quiet. The kind that lets you really taste things. The dough is soft, still warm right through, the icing sticky and sweet. Cinnamon hits the back of my throat, and my eyes nearly sting. I swallow hard.
“Good?” she asks, watching me closely.
“Best thing I’ve ever eaten,” I say honestly.
