The tears I'd been fighting rose hot and sudden, blurring my vision. I blinked rapidly, refusing to let them fall. The last thing I needed was for him to see me cry.
"I have to go." I grabbed my coat from where it hung near the door, shoving my arms into the sleeves with such force that a seam protested. "I need air. I need…space."
He made no move to stop me as I yanked open the door. "Simone—"
"Don't." I cut him off, unable to hear whatever gentle, reasonable thing he was about to say. "Just don't."
The door slammed behind me with a finality that should have been satisfying. Instead, it felt like I was the one being shut out rather than doing the shutting. I leaned against thehallway wall for a moment, breathing hard, waiting for the storm inside me to calm enough that I could walk without staggering. Through the heavy door, I could hear no sound of pursuit. No footsteps, no call of my name. Just silence. He was letting me go, respecting my need for escape even when it meant leaving things unresolved between us.
The realization that he understood me well enough to give me space when I needed it most only made the ache in my chest sharper.
Chapter seventeen
Simone
Istepped into the snow-filled morning with no destination in mind. No café to open. No customers to please. No schedule to maintain. The lack of purpose felt like a physical absence, a weight lifted that left me strangely unbalanced. I stood on the sidewalk outside Krampus's building, breath clouding in the winter air, and realized I could go anywhere. Do anything. For the first time in longer than I could remember, no one was waiting for me to solve their problems or brighten their day. The freedom was as terrifying as it was exhilarating.
My coat was already dusted with white, like someone had sifted powdered sugar across my shoulders. I pulled it tighter around me and began walking, letting my feet choose the direction. The magical district looked different in the morning light. Without the urgent press of errands or the anxiety of yesterday's unexpected shopping trip, I could actually see the wonder of it. Cobblestone streets wound between buildings that defied ordinary architecture, some leaning at impossible angles, others with windows that showed scenes from distant realms, a few that seemed to shift slightly when viewed from the corner of my eye.
At a corner stall, a trio of gnomes argued over wreath prices, their beards jiggling with the intensity of their haggling. The shortest one, barely reaching my knee, pounded his fist on the counter.
"Twelve gold for this? It's highway robbery! The holly doesn't even sing!"
The vendor, a gnome with spectacles perched on a bulbous nose, huffed indignantly. "Singing holly is fifteen minimum! This is premium silent holly with enchanted berries that never fall off! Ten gold, final offer."
The third gnome tugged his companions' sleeves. "The berries repel nargles, Gorbin. Worth every coin."
I slowed to watch them, realizing I'd never actually observed a full gnome negotiation despite serving dozens at the café each week. Their ritualized haggling had its own rhythm, its own rules. The shortest one eventually produced a velvet pouch, counting out odd-shaped coins that clinked musically as they hit the counter. The vendor wrapped their purchase in shimmering paper that folded itself into perfect creases, and all three parted with elaborate bows, satisfaction evident in their waddle.
Outside a bookshop with windows frosted at the edges, a small blue creature worked with deep concentration. Itsspindly fingers traced intricate patterns across the glass, leaving crystalline designs that sparkled in the morning light. A frost sprite, I'd served them iced coffees in summer, but never stopped to watch one create. Each stroke produced elaborate fractals that grew and connected into a scene of winter mountains and forests. The sprite's tongue poked out from between pointed teeth as it added minute details, tiny animals hidden among trees, stars with distinct constellations, clouds shaped like fanciful creatures.
When it noticed me watching, the sprite paused, tilting its head in curiosity. Then, it added a final flourish, a small café with smoke curling from its chimney, nestled at the base of a mountain. My café, rendered in frost. The sprite bowed before darting away, leaving me staring at the unexpected gift.
I continued my wandering, following a narrow street that curved between taller buildings. The scent hit me before I saw the source, cinnamon so rich and complex it made the café's spice blend seem like a pale imitation. I found myself standing outside a tiny bakery, its windows steamed from inside heat, a sign in curling script advertising "Enchanted Morning Treats—Memories Included."
Through the foggy glass, I glimpsed bakers working with dough that glowed faintly as they shaped it. One creation pulsed with golden light, and when the baker bit into it a small sample to test the texture, his eyes closed in momentary bliss, his expression suggesting he was experiencing something far beyond mere flavor. Memory-infused pastries, I'd heard of them but never indulged. They were expensive and required magical ingredients that didn't exactly fit the café's homey menu.
For a moment, I considered going inside, buying something just for me. A treat with no purpose beyond my own pleasure. The thought was so foreign I almost laughed aloud. The sound of singing drew my attention away from the bakery. Down a sidestreet decorated with evergreen boughs, a small gathering of fae children had formed a circle, their voices rising in harmony. The carol wasn't one I recognized, the melody shifted keys in ways human music rarely attempted, and the language was certainly not English. But the sentiment needed no translation. Joy. Connection. Celebration of light in darkness.
I stopped completely, letting the otherworldly music wash over me. The children's wings, gossamer things in shades of amber, emerald, and sapphire, fluttered in time with their singing. Their faces, with features too sharp and beautiful to be human, were transformed by simple happiness. They sang not for an audience or for payment, but because the music itself was something that connected them.
When was the last time I'd done anything purely for its own sake? Just... because it brought me joy?
I couldn't remember.
I stood in gently falling snow, listening to inhuman voices create beauty simply because they could, and felt let myself relax and simply enjoy the moment.
The park appeared before me like something from a dream, or more accurately, like something from a holiday card too perfect to exist in reality. Massive trees with trunks wider than café tables stood around a frozen pond, their branches draped in snow and strung with lights that seemed to float among the limbs rather than being attached to them. The ice below glowedwith subtle magic, throwing prisms of color across the white landscape whenever skaters' blades cut across its surface. I'd passed this place a hundred times on my way to work, but had never actually walked through its wrought-iron gates or sat on one of its benches that somehow remained warm despite the snow.
I brushed off a light dusting of powder from one such bench and sat, feeling warmth rise immediately through my coat. Not hot, just comfortable, as if the bench had been waiting in the sun rather than a snowstorm. Around the pond, children played with the abandonment that transcended species, werewolf cubs in colorful mittens chasing each other across the ice, tiny fae with wings dusted in protective frost attempting spins, a young centaur cautiously testing his hooves on the slippery surface while his father watched proudly.
Their laughter carried across the park, a melody backed by the soft percussion of skate blades cutting ice. No one hurried. No one checked their phones or watches. They simply existed in the joy of the moment, something I'd forgotten how to do so long ago that watching it felt like witnessing a foreign ritual.
Near the pond's edge, a frost sprite, perhaps the same one I'd seen creating window art earlier, hovered just above the surface while instructing a small bog witch. The witch couldn't have been more than seven, her green-tinged skin standing out against a purple coat, her tiny legs wobbling as she attempted to remain upright on borrowed skates.
"Arms out like branches," the sprite demonstrated, its own limbs extended gracefully. "Feet like roots, seeking earth through ice."
The little witch mimicked the posture, her face scrunched in concentration. When she managed three gliding steps without falling, her face split into a grin of such pure triumph that I felt an answering smile tug at my own lips. The sprite clappedspindly hands together, leaving small puffs of frozen mist with each impact.
