I gripped the window frame, jaw tight, throat tighter.I told myself to be irritated, to march downstairs and bark at her to keep quiet.I told myself she was invading spaces that weren’t hers, tugging life into corners that should’ve stayed dead.
Instead, I just stood there, the sound digging deeper, softening something I hadn’t wanted touched.My chest felt too small for the ache swelling inside it.
She didn’t sing like someone trying to perform.She sang like someone who’d been waiting all her life to be heard, and somehow, the damn house listened.I listened.
“Silver bells,” she murmured between a laugh when the lights knotted again, “it’s Christmas time in the city.”
I pressed a scarred hand to my face, cursing low under my breath.
The sound shouldn’t matter.Her voice shouldn’t matter.
But it did.
And the worst part was knowing I’d never hear the silence the same way again.
The music cut off, and I thought maybe I’d finally get some peace.Then I heard the door creak and footsteps in the hall, quick and light, far too alive for this house.
She appeared in the doorway a moment later, balancing two baskets so full I thought the handles might snap.Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, hair dusted with snowflakes that hadn’t yet melted.The smell came with her—cinnamon, pine, something sharp and sweet that clung to her gloves and scarf.
It hit me square in the chest.My house never smelled like anything but dust and woodsmoke.
She stood there grinning like she was a kid sneaking candy from the jar.“Thought it was missing something,” she said, voice light, teasing, hopeful all at once.She nudged the basket higher with her knee, eyes gleaming.“You know, for Christmas.”
I opened my mouth to bark at her.To tell her no, not here, not in this place where light had no business lingering.The words crowded my throat, sharp and ready.
But when I looked at her—cheeks pink, eyes bright, smile impossible—I felt the fight drain right out of me.
My jaw worked, but what came out wasn’t the bark I’d meant.It was quieter.Rough, almost reluctant.
“Fine,” I muttered.“Don’t break anything.”
The grin she gave me in return could’ve lit the whole damn house.
And I hated how a part of me—buried deep, beaten down for years—wanted to let it.
Decorating.I never thought the word would apply to this place.These walls weren’t made for tinsel and paper stars.They were built for silence.For ghosts.
But she didn’t seem to care.
Belle moved through the library like she’d been born to claim it.A string of lights draped over her shoulder, a handful of paper snowflakes tucked under her arm.She hummed as she worked—always humming, damn her—and climbed the stepstool to fasten the bulbs along the high shelves.
I stood with my hands jammed in the pockets of my jacket, leaning against the wall, pretending to scowl.In truth, I couldn’t look away.Every motion she made was careful, reverent, like she was placing offerings on the altars of my life—altars I hadn’t visited in years.
When she stretched for the highest shelf, shifting onto her toes, the stool wobbled.Instinct pulled me forward before I even thought about it.I caught the ladder, steadying it with both hands.She glanced down, startled for a second, and then smiled.
For a heartbeat our faces were close.Too close.I could feel the warmth of her breath, catch the faint trace of vanilla clinging to her skin.My chest tightened, an ache I couldn’t name, and I forced myself to step back.
She didn’t notice.Or pretended not to.
A little later she rummaged through the shelves, triumphant when she pulled an old record from its sleeve.“Perfect,” she whispered, sliding it onto the battered player I hadn’t touched in years.
The needle scratched, a soft crackle filling the room, and then the first notes of a carol drifted out—thin, wavering, but steady.Music I hadn’t heard since before the deployments, before everything burned down.
The sound crawled into the hollow places of me like it belonged there.
She sang along under her breath, hanging brittle paper snowflakes on the mantel, as if she didn’t notice me stiffen under the weight of memory.
I turned away, trying to focus on the shelves, but something caught my eye—a box half-hidden behind a stack of war journals.I tugged it free and opened it.
