“Come inside,” she says, voice unsteady, eyes sure. “You’re home now.”
27
LILA
The bells start again at sunrise. Father Keane must’ve come back sometime in the night. The morning greets me with a wash of golden light and the scent of fresh bread. Not just toast. Real bread, crust just cracking, butter melting where somebody tested the corner. I pull my old shawl—my grandma’s, hand-stitched in reds and winter blues—around my shoulders. A voice threads through the hush of the morning quiet, low and patient.
“…and the snowman said, ‘You can borrow my scarf, but bring it back by spring.’”
I stand in the doorway and stay still. Matteo sits at the table with Marco in his lap, book open, one big hand turning pages slowly, so little fingers can keep up. I tread softly down, as if one creak too loud might send this new, fragile peace slipping away.
Marco’s hair sticks up in three places. The knit hat rests in his lap like a pet. Matteo’s knuckles are wrapped in white, the star Marco made tucked under the bandage as if it lives there now. His mouth shapes the story. His eyes keep sliding down to check whether the boy’s listening and not drifting. He doesn’t need tofuss. From here, it looks like Marco’s the one keeping Matteo steady.
Marco taps the picture. “He should’ve kept the scarf. The wind steals stuff.”
Matteo nudges his shoulder. “Gentlemen return what they borrow.”
Marco thinks about that, then nods, glad Matteo likes his thinking.
I could stand here all day. He looks up anyway, the way he always feels a gaze. For a beat, something soft moves through his face, like the lift of a wren’s song in the morning sunlight, and it catches at my heart. For a foolish moment, I feel chosen. Then he tips his chin toward the kettle. I walk to the counter to make tea, a care that isn’t clinging.
Maria moves around us like she has always made breakfast for four. She sets jam on the table, slices an orange, and adds a plate of cinnamon rolls. It's Christmas, and rules bend. “Eat,” she says to everyone. It’s her love letter.
Soon, the table is crowded. A platter of scrambled eggs bright with chives sits beside a bowl of roasted potatoes crisped at the edges. A small mountain of pancakes dusted with sugar glistens like new snow. A pitcher of maple syrup catches the light, gold and slow. The kitchen smells of butter and orange peel and something faintly smoky from the oven, the kind of scent that makes you forget the world outside the window is frozen.
Marco leans forward, eyes wide. “That one’s the biggest,” he says, pointing to a roll the size of his fist.
“Go on,” Maria tells him. “Christmas morning means first pick.”
He grins, tearing into it, the icing sticking to his fingers. “It tastes like clouds,” he mumbles around a mouthful.
Matteo laughs, low and easy. He reaches for the teapot, pours two cups, and slides one toward me, his fingers brushing mine. When I look up, his deep brown eyes are soft with a smile.
“Best breakfast I've had all year,” he says to Maria, and she waves him off with a half smile. “You always say that,” she answers, her eyes crinkling.
Happiness settles in my chest like something familiar finding its way home. The clatter of forks, Marco’s laughter, Maria humming under her breath—none of it’s grand, but it fills every corner of the room and says,we’re here.Marco leans into Matteo’s chest and starts talking through the first bite that hits his mouth.
The news runs on low volume, a man’s voice smooth and urgent.
“—Local authorities confirm that a group of outsiders attempted to disrupt the Christmas Eve pageant. Quick action by residents prevented injuries. Several suspects are in custody, while others, including one woman, remain at large. Police urge caution?—”
“Papa fought the bad guys,” Marco tells me, full volume, like the room forgot. He stops, checks my face, then barrels on.
“There was fire like in movies,” he says, eyes wide, hands spreading as if to show the flames. “But not up high, just licking the wall like a mean cat.” He leans forward, voice quickening. “And then the jingle string sang when the grown-ups banged it—remember?”
He barely pauses for air, words tumbling faster. “And Coach used the chair fence like a gate, and Mr. Finch made the ladder into a wall.” He gestures with both arms now, illustrating each part. “And the broom turned into a stick sword, and the orange hats made the path bend so nobody ran wrong, and?—”
“Breathe,” Maria teases.
He gulps air and keeps going. “I heard him say, ‘Down. Now,’ and we all ducked like a school of fish, and then he said, ‘Follow the lady in red,’ and that’s Mrs. Brewster, and we went through the kitchen where it smelled like cookies, not smoke, because he made it safe there on purpose, and he picked me up like this.” He demonstrates by throwing both arms around his own neck and grunting. “And he told me, ‘I have you,’ and he did, and he put me in your arms.”
His words tumble over each other, a collage of what he remembers and what he’s gathered since, the stories that float through the house, the things people say when they think he’s not listening. He pauses, catching his breath, eyes flicking up to mine. “That’s when Mommy told mehe’s yourpapa,” he says softly, “and her eyes were moist and smiling. But I knew.”
He nods once, small and certain, before tumbling on. “And then we ran, and there was crunchy salt snow in the alley so we didn’t fall, and the sheriff said words in his box and didn’t even spill his coffee.”
He stops, eyes bright, chest heaving with the work of remembering fast. He looks at Matteo as if to check whether he got the order right.
“You did,” Matteo says. No contradictions, steady as a bench. “You were brave.”
