“For six weeks,” she shot back. “And guests are allowed to have their own traditions.”
“Not when those traditions disrespect the culture they’re joining.”
She looked at him like he’d grown another head.
“How is celebrating Christmas disrespectful?”
“Because you’re refusing to integrate. Refusing to learn our ways.” He crossed his arms over his massive chest. “You arrive here expecting everything to change for you instead of changing yourself.”
Her face burned. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I just want to make this place feel a little less...” She gestured at the stark walls, the bare surfaces. “Less empty.”
“It’s not empty. It’s functional.”
“It’s cold.” He couldn’t argue with that, surely? Not when she was practically shivering.
“It’s honest.” His voice dropped lower. “We don’t hide behind decorations and false cheer. We accept the world as it is.”
“There’s nothing false about finding joy in hard times.” Her hands tightened on the mug. “My mom taught me that. Joy is a choice.”
His expression softened maybe, just for a second. It didn’t last. A second later the shutters came back down.
“Your mother isn’t here.”
The breath left her lungs. No. No, she wasn’t. Her mom was dead, buried three years ago in a grave Juni couldn’t afford to visit now because she’d lost everything. Her job, her apartment, her savings. All of it gone because she’d reported harassment and been punished for it. Her eyes burned.
“I know she’s not here.” The words came out thick. “But what she taught me is. And I’m not abandoning my culture’s traditions just because you think I should ‘adapt’.”
He was quiet as his gaze traveled over her face.
“Do what you want.” He turned and grabbed a shirt from the back of a chair. “But don’t expect me to participate.”
He pulled the shirt over his head and stalked out. The back door slammed shut behind him.
She stood alone in the kitchen, shaking. Not from cold this time. The kasta had gone lukewarm in her hands. Dumping it in the cleaning unit, she set the mug down with more force than necessary.
Fine. If he wanted her to adapt, she’d adapt. She’d learn about his stupid midwinter celebration, but she was also having Christmas. Even if she had to celebrate it alone.
The house was too quiet without him in it. She could hear her own breathing, the faint whistle of wind outside, nothing else.
Moving helped. Always had. She couldn’t do anything about Goraath’s shitty attitude or the isolation or the fact that she was so far from home, but she could make this space feel less like a cell.
She looked around. The main room had exposed beams. Perfect for hanging things. If she could find things to hang. She started searching. Carefully at first, aware that he’d told her not to touch his things. She was pushing boundaries, but there had to be something she could use. Fabric scraps, old rope, anything with texture or color.
A storage closet near the bathing room yielded a basket of what looked like mending supplies. Thread in various shades of brown and grey. A few pieces of worn fabric. Not festive. But it was something.
She sat at the table and started braiding scraps of fabric together. Her fingers remembered the motions from childhood, her mom teaching her to make decorations from whatever they could afford. Which had usually been nothing. We don’t need expensive things to make something beautiful, Juni-bug. Her throat tightened again. She braided faster.
By the time the twin suns were fully up, she had a garland maybe three feet long. Pathetic compared to what she could have made with real supplies, but better than blank walls.
Dragging a chair under a beam, she climbed up, and started securing one end of the garland. The knot was tricky. She had to stretch, reaching as far as she could to loop the fabric around the rough wood. Almost there. Just a little more?—
“What are you doing?”
The voice came from behind her. Deep. Unexpected. She jerked, lost her balance, and the chair tipped.
