Snowfall

chapter sixteen

December 26 dawned bright and cold, the snow from Christmas Eve still deep and pristine across the neighborhood. Ethan woke first, lying on the couch where they had eventually drifted to sleep sometime after three a.m. Emily was curled against him, head on his chest, one hand resting over his heart as if confirming it still beat. The tree lights, left on all night, cast soft colors across her sleeping face.

He didn’t move for a long time, afraid to break the spell. Seventeen years of searching, lifetimes of waiting, and here she was—real, warm, breathing steadily in his arms. The gold ring glinted on her finger when she shifted slightly in her sleep.

Eventually the winter sun climbed higher, spilling through the blinds. Emily stirred, opened her eyes, and smiled up at him without a trace of confusion or regret—only wonder and certainty.

“Morning,” she whispered.

“Morning,” he answered, voice rough with emotion. “Best one yet.”

They made coffee together, moving slowly around his small kitchen like people learning a new dance. She wore one of his sweatshirts over her clothes from the night before; it swallowed her, sleeves rolled multiple times. He couldn’t stop watching her—the way she measured coffee grounds with the same careful precision Amelia had used for cornmeal, the way she hummed that old hymn while the machine gurgled.

They ate leftover gingerbread for breakfast, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor amid scattered notebooks and wrapping paper remnants. Sunlight glittered off the snow outside, turning the room golden.

“We should probably talk about practical things,” Emily said eventually, licking icing from her thumb. “Like whose house we keep. And telling people. And… everything.”

Ethan nodded. “Your kitchen’s bigger. Better for the bakery.”

“But your yard backs onto the creek,” she countered. “Closer to a river. For the kids.”

They both paused at the word kids, then smiled—shy, excited, a little overwhelmed.

“We’ll combine,” he decided. “Sell one, renovate the other. Or keep both for a while. No rush.”

“No rush,” she echoed, relieved.

The rest of the day unfolded gently. They walked to her house to feed the sourdough starter she couldn’t neglect (“He’s been alive since 2018,” she explained seriously. “His name is Bub.”). Ethan laughed until his sides hurt.

They shoveled the shared driveway together, breath fogging, cheeks pink. Neighbors waved from windows or porches—Mrs. Alvarez across the street with her toddler on her hip, Mr. Jenkins walking his ancient beagle. Everyone called merry Christmas; no one yet knew the miracle that had happened next door.

Back inside Emily’s kitchen—warmer, cozier, filled with baking tools and the lingering scent of cinnamon—they made lunch: grilled cheese and tomato soup. Simple, perfect.

Over bowls at her table, Emily grew quiet.

“I keep waiting to wake up,” she admitted. “Or for you to say it was a dream. But it’s real. You’re real.”

Ethan reached across, covered her hand with his. The ring pressed cool between their palms.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “Not this time.”

That evening they video-called his parents again—this time with the full story, carefully edited but honest. His mother cried happy tears; his father, usually stoic, cleared his throat multiple times and said, “Bring her home soon, son. We need to meet the girl who made you believe in miracles.”

Emily spoke to them shyly at first, then warmed—telling them about her bakery, promising to ship gingerbread north. By the end, his mother was calling her “sweetheart” and planning a spring visit.

December 27–29 blurred into a private honeymoon of sorts.

They rarely left the block. Days were spent migrating between houses: mornings in Ethan’s living room with coffee and memories, afternoons in Emily’s kitchen testing new cookie recipes (“Wedding flavors,” she declared), evenings on whichever couch felt closest.

They talked endlessly—about past lives they now remembered in fragments, about fears that the memories might fade, about how to build a future that honored both who they had been and who they were now.

One night, December 28, they drove to the James River under a clear, star-filled sky. The banks were crusted with snow; the water ran black and silent between icy edges. They stood on a small overlook, arms around each other, breath mingling.

“This isn’t our exact spot,” Ethan said. “But it’s close enough.”

Emily nodded against his shoulder. “The river carried our promise all this way. It knew.”

They skipped stones—frozen at first, then finding rhythm. Five skips. Six. Laughter echoing across the water.

On December 30, reality crept in gently. Emily had post-holiday orders to fill; Ethan had deadlines for articles. They worked side by side at her kitchen table—he typing, she piping icing—stealing glances, brushing hands, kissing between paragraphs and cookies.

That evening they decorated the outside of both houses together: fresh pine garlands on railings, white lights along rooflines. When they finished, they stood in the shared driveway, snow crunching under boots, admiring the glow.

“Looks like one big house now,” Emily observed.

“Good practice,” Ethan said.

New Year’s Eve arrived crisp and cold, the sky promising more snow by midnight.

They decided to stay in—no parties, no crowds. Emily baked a small chocolate cake (“For new beginnings”). Ethan made mulled cider on the stove. They chose her house for the countdown—bigger kitchen, comfier couch, fireplace that actually worked.

At eleven-thirty they carried blankets outside to her front porch, bundled together on the swing she already had (a happy discovery). The neighborhood was quiet; distant fireworks popped occasionally from downtown Richmond.

They talked about the year ahead: combining households by spring, a small wedding in late summer—maybe by the river—with only close friends and his parents. Emily wanted peach cobbler instead of traditional cake; Ethan wanted to carve their initials into a tree somewhere private.

At 11:58 they went inside, turned on the television just long enough to see the ball drop in Times Square.

“Ten,” Emily counted softly.

“Nine.”

Their voices joined.

“Eight… seven… six…”

At “one,” Ethan kissed her—slow, deliberate, tasting of cider and chocolate and forever.

“Happy New Year,” he whispered against her lips.

“Happy everything,” she answered.

Later, lying in her bed for the first time—curtains open so they could watch snow begin to fall—they spoke into the dark.

“I used to dread New Year’s,” Emily admitted. “Always felt like another year without… something. Someone.”

“Me too,” Ethan said. “Now it feels like the first real one.”

She traced the line of his jaw in the dim light.

“We get all the years now,” she said. “The ones we were supposed to have in 1864. And 1865. And every year after.”

He pulled her closer.

“All of them,” he promised. “Starting tonight.”

Outside, snow fell thick and silent, covering the footprints of the old year, preparing a clean path for the new.

Inside, two souls who had crossed centuries to find each other slept at last—peaceful, entwined, the gold ring and silver locket resting side by side on the nightstand, catching moonlight like small, patient stars.

The wait was truly over.

The life they had dreamed of by a river long ago could finally begin.