Snowfall

chapter ten

The first week of December passed in a blur of small, ordinary moments that felt anything but ordinary to Ethan.

He woke on December 2 to the sound of a delivery truck—his bed and couch finally arriving. While the movers worked, he stood at the kitchen window nursing coffee and watching Emily’s house. The blue door opened at eight sharp; she emerged in a coat and scarf, carrying trays to her SUV. Holiday orders, he guessed. She waved when she noticed him in the window, a quick, friendly lift of her hand that sent warmth flooding through him.

He waved back, too long, then retreated like a teenager.

By afternoon his furniture was in place. He unpacked slowly, arranging books on shelves, hanging one picture—a print of the James River at sunset. The artificial tree went in the corner; he strung the lights but left ornaments for later. Every few minutes he found excuses to glance outside.

Emily returned around four, snow flurries swirling again. She unloaded empty trays, then paused at his mailbox—empty since he hadn’t set up forwarding yet—and slipped something inside. A small envelope.

Ethan waited until she was inside before retrieving it.

A simple card: hand-drawn gingerbread house on the front, inside a note in neat, looping script.

Welcome again, neighbor!

If you need help with anything (furniture moving, holiday lights, or just someone to eat extra cookies), knock anytime.

—Emily

He read it three times, tracing the curve of her y’s. Then he tucked it into his sketchbook, between pages of Amelia’s face.

That evening he baked frozen pizza—his first meal in the new oven—and ate it standing at the counter, staring at her lighted windows. Curtains were open; he caught glimpses: her moving in the kitchen, pulling something golden from the oven, humming as she iced cookies. The scene was so domestic, so peaceful, it ached.

On December 3 he drove to the Harris Teeter she’d directed him to. He bought basics—milk, eggs, bread—but also cocoa, marshmallows, cinnamon. Ingredients for traditions he hadn’t observed in years.

When he returned, Emily was on her porch stringing white icicle lights. She waved him over.

“Need a tall person,” she called. “Can you reach the hook above the door?”

Ethan set his groceries inside, then helped. Standing on her porch, close enough to smell vanilla in her hair, he fastened the lights while she directed from below.

“Perfect,” she said when he stepped down. “Thanks. Payment in cookies later.”

“No payment needed,” he answered, but she insisted.

That night a foil-covered plate appeared on his doorstep: sugar cookies shaped like snowflakes, dusted with silver sanding sugar. Another note: For the light-hanging hero.

He ate two with cocoa, watching her house from his darkened living room. Her tree was up now—visible through the big front window—twinkling multicolored lights, ornaments glinting. He wondered if she’d decorated alone.

December 4 brought heavier snow—unusual so early for Virginia. Schools closed; roads quieted. Ethan worked from home, writing an article on winter encampments during the Civil War. Every paragraph felt charged; he was living inside his own research.

Mid-afternoon he heard shoveling next door. Through the window he saw Emily clearing her driveway, cheeks pink, breath fogging. Without thinking he grabbed his coat and shovel.

“Team effort?” he asked, crossing the lawn.

She grinned. “I won’t say no.”

They shoveled side by side, breath mingling in the cold air, boots crunching. Conversation flowed easily: her bakery orders tripling this week, his freelance history writing, favorite holiday movies (hers: It’s a Wonderful Life; his: the same). When they finished both driveways, she invited him in for hot chocolate.

Her kitchen was warm chaos—racks of cooling cookies, bowls of icing, flour on every surface. The scent was overwhelming: sugar, spice, home.

She handed him a steaming mug topped with whipped cream.

“To teamwork,” she toasted.

They clinked mugs. Ethan’s hand trembled slightly; he hoped she didn’t notice.

Sitting at her small table, snow falling outside the window, he felt time fold. For an instant he was Elijah, stealing moments in a barn lit by lantern. He blinked it away.

“You okay?” she asked. “You went quiet.”

“Just… this is nice,” he said. “Been a long time since I had real hot chocolate.”

She smiled softly. “Well, you’re welcome anytime. Neighbors should look out for each other.”

December 5 and 6 blurred: quick waves across yards, a borrowed extension cord when his outdoor lights tangled, her dropping off a tin of peppermint bark “for energy while unpacking.” Each interaction was brief, friendly, surface-level.

But the flashes grew stronger.

The way she tucked flour-dusted hair behind her ear—exactly Amelia’s gesture. The tune she hummed while icing cookies—an old hymn he remembered from church in 1862. The silver chain he glimpsed once at her neckline when she bent to pick up a dropped tray.

He hadn’t seen the locket itself yet. He didn’t dare ask.

By December 7, Ethan’s house looked lived-in: tree fully decorated with inexpensive ornaments bought that week, wreaths on doors, lights outside matching hers. He stood in his living room that evening, staring at her glowing windows, heart pounding with certainty and terror.

She was Amelia. Every cell in his body knew it.

But she didn’t remember. Not yet.

He whispered to the quiet room, “How do I tell you without sounding insane?”

Outside, snow fell thicker, blanketing the world in preparation.

Seventeen days until Christmas Eve.

Seventeen days to help her remember—or to lose her all over again.