Ash.
My chest does something stupid and fluttery. Ash sees the picture and stiffens. He swallows once. Hard.
“Pretty good, kid,” he says, voice tight.
“You didn’t hang it up yet,” Holly points out. “You said you would.”
“I will.”
“You said that yesterday,” she adds.
His jaw tics.
She turns to me, whispering loudly, “He never decorates. He doesn’t even have lights.”
I glance around the room—no garland, no stockings, no tree. Not even a strand of cheap tinsel. And for the first time, Ash looks… embarrassed.
I soften. “Maybe he just needs a little help.”
Holly gasps. “Will you help us decorate, Lucy?”
Ash cuts in quickly. “Hey, no?—”
“Yes!” Holly bounces. “Please, please, please!”
“Holly—” he tries again.
But the kid is already climbing off the couch and running toward the closet. “Ash,” I say quietly, stepping closer, “it wouldn’t hurt to let her have a little fun.”
He presses a hand to his jaw, rubbing slow circles like he’s fighting a headache. Or a memory. Or both. “Lucy…”
“Just a few decorations,” I whisper. “For her.”
He looks at me then—really looks. And suddenly the exhaustion shifts into something else. Something heavier. Something that scares me.
“She doesn’t understand,” he murmurs.
“Understand what?”
“That this isn’t…” He trails off, shaking his head. “This isn’t permanent.”
The words hit me like ice. Not permanent.
“You’re her guardian,” I say softly.
“Temporary guardian,” he corrects, harsh. “Temporary.”
Before I can respond, Holly drags out a cardboard box of decorations from the closet—dusty, half-crushed, clearly untouched for years. “Ash?” I whisper, nodding at the box. “Those were your sister’s?”
His entire body goes rigid. Then—quietly, almost reluctantly—he nods.
Holly pries open the box, pulling out ornaments like small treasures. Ash watches with a hollow expression.
“You okay?” I murmur.
“No.” It’s not loud. It’s not obvious. But it’s honest.
I move closer. “Talk to me.”
