His fingers hovered over the keys, and then, he played a familiar Bing Crosby classic and crooned along to it. When he finished, I reached for his hand, threading our fingers together.
“That was so good,” I whispered.
He ducked his head, almost shy. “I’ve been sneaking in here early mornings before my shift. It’s coming back to me, slowly.” He squeezed my hand. “I have something for you.”
“What? No, Marcus, I?—”
“It’s Christmas Eve,” he said, as if that explained everything. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small package wrapped in blue paper with silver stars, matching the stationery I’d chosen for my sister. My throat constricted, and I unwrapped the small package with unsteady fingers, trying to relax. Inside was a small leather case. I opened it to find a guitar pick. It wasn’t justanypick—it was custom-made, with the Guardian Hall logo on one side and my initials on the other.
“I don’t want to pressure you,” Marcus said, his eyes on my face. “But whenever you’re ready to play again, I thought you should have something that’s just yours.”
I ran my thumb over the smooth surface, emotion welling in my chest. It was such a small thing, but it represented so much—hope, possibility, a future where music might be part of my life again.
“Thank you.” I leaned into him, and we kissed for the longest time.
A weight lifted from my heart, as I let go of the fear and uncertainty, if only for this moment. Marcus wrapped his arms around me, pulling me closer, and the snow outside, the gentle glow of the lamp, and the world beyond these walls fellaway. Why was I being such a freaking coward about touching a guitar? The rest of the team would have given anything to have lived and been here now, and I was messed up over a damn guitar?
I wished my team could see this Christmas; I wished they were still here.
The pain was too much, and as much as I pushed down the sorrow rising in me, I couldn’t stop it. I buried my face in Marcus’s shoulder, and the tears came, hot and fast, pouring out of me with an intensity I couldn’t control.
“I miss them,” I choked out. “I miss them so much.”
Marcus cradled the back of my head. “I know,” he whispered. “I know you do.”
He didn’t try to stop my tears or tell me everything was going to be okay. He just held me, steady and strong, as the storm of grief washed through me. His hand moved in slow circles on my back.
“Sometimes,” I managed between ragged breaths, “it hits me all at once. How they’re gone.”
Marcus pressed his cheek to the top of my head. “I’m no expert, but as Alex says in our meetings, grief comes in waves,” he murmured.
I pulled back, roughly wiping my face. “Will it ever stop?”
His eyes met mine, honest and gentle. “No,” he said. “But it changes. It becomes part of you, rather than something that consumes you. The waves get further apart, less overwhelming.” He brushed a tear from my cheek with his thumb. “And eventually, you learn to swim.”
I nodded, drawing a shaky breath. “I just wish… I wish I could’ve had one more Christmas with them.” I leaned into him again, exhausted, but reached up and took the pick from its case, holding it between my fingers. Marcus watched me with a hopeful expression.
I smiled, nodding toward the guitar propped in the corner. “Let’s see if I’ve still got it,” I whispered.
I grabbed the guitar and rejoined him on the bench, settling it on my lap and running my fingers along the neck. It felt familiar as if it had been waiting for me to pick it up all along.
The first strum was hesitant, but muscle memory returned as I played a few chords, and I managed a rough rendition of “Silent Night,” Marcus humming along. It was too rushed, then too slow, and I bowed my head when it ended.
“It didn’t hurt as I thought it would,” I admitted.
Marcus leaned in, kissing my temple, his lips warm on my skin. “I’m glad.”
I strummed another chord, letting the sound vibrate through my fingertips. “Pax used to play. Not well,” I added with a small laugh, “but enthusiastically. He’d belt out these terrible country songs until the rest of the team would throw things at him to make him stop.”
“I bet he kept singing anyway,” Marcus said.
“Every time.” The memory warmed me instead of hurting. “He’d just sing louder.”
We sat in comfortable silence, snowflakes drifting past the window, casting delicate shadows across the floor. I played soft, hesitant melodies, sometimes stumbling, finding a balance. Marcus listened, occasionally humming along or placing his hand over mine when my fingers trembled too much.
“Marcus?” I blurted when my feelings couldn’t stay inside a moment longer.
“Hmm?”
