The snowflakes grow thicker, pelting against my coat, clinging to my eyelashes each time I blink.
Then, through the veil of it, a faint light glows ahead as the shape of the storefront finally comes into focus.
The sign sways lightly in the wind, its letters scripted in looping red cursive.Noel’s Winter Wonders.
My chest tightens.
It’ssoher.
Warm, festive, and unashamedly nostalgic.
A slice of Christmas carved out of this sleepy town, a reflection of the girl who told us she used to sneak down at midnight just to watch the snow fall, who’d hum carols under her breath when she thought no one was listening while she cooked for us.
I swallow hard as we cross the last stretch of sidewalk, boots crunching.
When we push through the door, the sound of the storm muffles instantly, replaced by the soft chime of bells and the hum of quiet holiday music.
The air inside is warm and fragrant, thick with the scent of pine, cinnamon, and something sweeter.
Light spills from strings of fairy lights overhead, casting a soft glow over rows of ornaments, garlands, and wreaths that glitter softly in the warm lighting.
It’s beautiful.
For a heartbeat, my mind drifts.
Back to that living room six years ago when the fireplace was crackling softly as the snow outside swallowed the world whole.
While the three of us sat inside pretending we weren’t unraveling under her touch.
I can still see the way she’d looked in the firelight still in my mind’s eye, hear the soft tremor in her breath when my hand brushed along her skin.
The way she’d leaned into my touch like she’d been waiting for it.
The way everything else—the world, the rules, Richard—had fallen away when she whispered my name.
Standing here, surrounded by everything that feels likeher, it’s like no time has passed at all.
Dean moves ahead, tugging off his scarf and shuffling his feet along the entryway mat.
“She really made this place hers, huh?” he mutters under his breath.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. My voice barely carries over the sound of the carol playing from the back somewhere. “She did.”
Dean gives a low whistle under his breath, and together we start down the nearest aisle.
The place feels alive, full of light and color.
Every inch of it is filled with Christmas. Garland winds along shelves, ornaments glittering under the lights, ribbons spilling from wicker baskets, but there’s a rhythm to it all, a kind of intentional chaos.
I can see it in the details.
The perfectly balanced displays, the mix of old-world charm and modern style, the hand-lettered tags on every wreath.
Even the air feels curated with pine and spice and something faintly sweet, like sugar cookies just out of the oven.
“This is…damn impressive,” Dean says, half to himself.
He reaches out to tap a glass snowflake hanging from a branch display.
