A Christmas Wish For Us

Chapter 16: The Long Winter

Three Years Later

Time in the cabin didn't move in hours; it moved in inches of snow against the glass.

Liam measured his life by the slow creep of the drift. The silence was a physical weight, pressing against his eardrums, broken only by the settling of the logs and the turning of a page in a book he had already read twice. The dusty paperback smelled of mildew and time, a scent that clung to his fingertips even after he washed them in the basin of freezing water.

He sat in the rocking chair by the woodstove, a wool blanket draped over his legs. The wool was scratchy, an irritant against his thinning skin, but the itch was a reminder that he could still feel something.

According to Dr. Henderson, he should have been a memory two years and nine months ago. He should have been a date on a gravestone, a tragic anecdote Ben told over whiskey at parties.

But the tumor was a cruel executioner. It hadn't killed him; it had simply paused, hovering over him like a vulture waiting for the meat to spoil.

The Hum was his only constant companion.

It had evolved. In the beginning, it was just a buzz. Now, it was a sentient thing—a static radio tuned to a dead channel, lodged deep in the damp gray matter of his temporal lobe. Some days, the Hum was a low, sullen growl, vibrating against his molars. Other days, like today, it was a high-pitched scream, a needle of sound trying to stitch his left and right hemispheres together with barbed wire.

Tick-tock, the Hum hissed. I’m still here. I’m still hungry.

Liam reached for the mug of tea on the side table. His hand—the left one—remained motionless in his lap, a curled, dead thing. He used his right. The tremor was there, too, a fine vibration that made the liquid ripple in concentric circles. He took a sip. It was lukewarm and tasted of the iron-heavy well water and the metallic tang of his medication.

He spent his days watching the snow fall. It was a white curtain that sealed him into this wooden box, erasing the horizon, erasing the road, erasing the man he used to be.

When the delivery driver arrived on the first Tuesday of the month, the sound of the engine was violent—an intrusion of the living world into his tomb. The tires crunching on the gravel sounded like bones snapping. Liam would hide in the bedroom until he heard the heavy thump of the box on the porch and the fading roar of the truck. He was a ghost who had forgotten how to haunt.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound was sharp, alien. It cut through the Hum like a gunshot.

Liam froze. His heart hammered a frantic, broken rhythm against his ribs, fluttering like a bird trapped in a chimney. The delivery wasn't due for another week.

They found me, the paranoia whispered. The debt collectors of the afterlife are here.

He grabbed his cane—a rough branch he had carved himself, the wood worn smooth and dark by the oils of his palm—and hauled himself up. His joints popped, dry and brittle. He shuffled to the heavy wooden door, his bad leg dragging on the floorboards with a sound like sandpaper on velvet. Scuff. Drag. Scuff. Drag.

He reached for the iron latch. The metal was biting cold.

He opened it.

A blast of freezing air hit him, smelling of ozone and pine needles. Standing in the snow, framed by the blinding white of the frozen lake, was a figure that didn't belong in this grayscale world.

It was Ben.

He was wearing a coat that looked far too expensive for the wilderness, the fabric crisp and dark. He looked older. There were gray hairs threading through his beard, and deep lines etched around his eyes—lines that hadn't been there when Liam walked into Union Station three years ago.

But he looked solid. He looked like blood and muscle and heat.

"Hello, ghost," Ben said. His breath puffed in the air, a cloud of life.

Liam stared at him. The Hum spiked, a sudden screech of feedback in his skull. "You found me."

"You used my credit card to buy the woodstove, Liam," Ben said, stepping inside. He kicked the snow off his boots—a loud, wet sound that made Liam flinch. "You're not exactly Jason Bourne."

Liam limp-walked back to his chair, collapsing into it. The effort had left him breathless. "Why are you here, Ben?"

Ben stood in the center of the cabin. He looked around at the sparse furniture, the stacks of dog-eared books, the lonely, dusty existence. He took in the smell of sickness that no amount of woodsmoke could mask.

He shook his head, a gesture of pity that stung Liam more than the cold.

"We're getting married," Ben said.

The words hung in the cold air, heavier than the snow.

Liam’s heart—that traitorous, beating thing—slammed against his ribs. The pain was physical, a sharp twist in his gut.

"When?" Liam asked. His voice was raspy from disuse, a rusted hinge forcing itself open.

"Christmas Eve," Ben said. he unbuttoned his coat, bringing the smell of leather and expensive cologne into the room. "Two weeks from now."

"Fitting," Liam whispered. The date was a knife. The anniversary of the wish. The anniversary of the end.

"She wants you there," Ben said.

Liam laughed. It was a dry, broken sound, like dead leaves skittering on pavement. "She wants the rude neighbor who moved to Seattle? I doubt that."

"She wants Ben's best friend," Ben corrected, his voice firm. "She knows we talk. She knows you're 'in Seattle.' She asked me yesterday, 'Is your friend Liam coming? You should invite him. It’s been three years. Maybe he’s less intense now.'"

Ben pulled a wooden chair over and sat down, leaning forward. His knees cracked. It was a human sound.

"Liam, I can't do this without you," Ben said, his voice dropping. "I've played the role. I've read the manual. I've been the anchor. I bought the peonies. I held her through the nightmares. But I can't stand at that altar and marry the love of your life while you rot in a cabin thinking you're dead."

"I am dead," Liam said sharply. "Liam Blackwood died three years ago on a train platform. You're talking to a corpse."

"You're not dead!" Ben shouted. The sound echoed off the log walls, making the dust motes dance. "You're right here! You're breathing! And you're still in love with her!"

Ben reached into his pocket. The fabric rustled. He pulled out a cream-colored envelope. The paper was thick, textured. Expensive.

He tossed it onto Liam’s lap.

Liam Blackwood. Guest of Honor.

"I need a witness," Ben said, his voice dropping to a desperate plea. "Her parents are gone. My parents are in Florida and can't travel. We're doing it small. Just us, the officiant, and two witnesses. Her sister is coming. I need you."

Liam looked at the envelope. He traced his name with his trembling finger. The letters were raised, embossed in gold. It felt like a ticket to a world he had been exiled from.

"If I go back," Liam whispered, the fear rising in his throat like bile, "I might not be able to leave again."

"Then don't," Ben said. "Stay. Fight. Tell her the truth."

"No," Liam said immediately. The Hum buzzed in agreement—a warning shot. Danger. Danger. "The deal stands. I'm the stranger. I'm the neighbor."

He looked up at Ben, searching his friend's face for the one thing that mattered. "Does she look happy?"

Ben softened. The tension drained from his shoulders. A genuine, warm smile touched his lips, reaching his eyes.

"Yeah," Ben said softly. "She's happy, Liam. She laughs every day. She’s started painting again. She loves me. Maybe not the way she loved you... not with that fire that burns the house down... but she loves me. It's a good life."

Liam closed his eyes. He let the words wash over him. A good life. That was the goal. That was the architecture of his sacrifice.

"Okay," Liam said softly.

"Okay?" Ben asked, hope flaring in his voice.

"I'll come," Liam said. He opened his eyes, looking at the snowy window. "I'll be your witness. But the moment the ceremony is over, I'm gone. Back here. Forever."

"Deal," Ben said.

---

Two Weeks Later - Chicago

The city hadn't changed, but it felt louder. Brighter. The noise was an assault; the traffic was a roaring river that threatened to drown him.

Liam stood in the back of the small chapel, leaning heavily on his cane. He had shaved his beard, revealing the gaunt hollows of his cheeks. He was wearing his old charcoal suit. It hung loosely on his frame now, a scarecrow's outfit, but with a thick sweater underneath to hide the wasted muscle, he looked presentable. Just a little tired. A little gray.

The organ music started. It was a deep, resonant vibration that he felt in the soles of his feet.

Liam’s hands shook. He clasped them over the head of his cane, white-knuckling the wood to steady them.

Ben stood at the altar, looking terrified and handsome in a navy suit. He caught Liam’s eye and gave a small, jerky nod. Thank you.

Then, the heavy oak doors opened.

Sarah walked in.

Liam stopped breathing. The air left the room.

She was wearing a simple white dress, vintage cut, long sleeves. No veil. She held a bouquet of red roses and white peonies—Page 12.

She looked older. There was a maturity in her face, a quiet strength in the set of her jaw. But her eyes... her eyes were the same. Bright. Chaotic. Fiercely alive.

She walked down the aisle alone. She didn't look sad. She looked radiant.

As she passed the back pew, she turned her head.

Her eyes met Liam’s.

For a second, the universe contracted. The organ music faded into a dull drone. The chapel vanished. It was just the two of them, suspended in the amber of a memory.

Liam waited for the spark. He waited for the recognition. He waited for her to scream his name and shatter the illusion.

Sarah smiled.

It was a polite, warm smile. The smile you give a friend you haven't seen in a while.

"Hi, Liam," she whispered as she passed him. The scent of her perfume—vanilla and cedar—drifted over him, a ghost passing through a wall. "Glad you made it back from Seattle."

Then she turned away, focusing her eyes on Ben.

Liam let out a shuddering breath that felt like a sob. He felt like he had been stabbed and saved at the exact same moment.

She really doesn't know, he thought, the Hum buzzing a low, mournful note in his ear. I did it. I really did it.

He watched her reach the altar. He watched Ben take her hand.

He watched them exchange vows—vows that Ben had written, but that sounded suspiciously like lines from the notebook.

"I promise to be your anchor," Ben said, his voice thick with emotion. "I promise to hold you when it rains."

Sarah wiped a tear from her cheek.

"And I promise," Sarah said, her voice clear and strong, cutting through Liam’s heart, "to love you with my whole soul. To grow old and boring with you."

Liam gripped his cane until his hand cramped. Grow old and boring. That was his wish. That was the note tucked into the mortar of the Wishing Wall.

"Do we have the witnesses?" the officiant asked.

Sarah’s sister stepped up to sign the paper. Then, she handed the pen to Liam.

Liam walked forward. His leg dragged slightly—thump, drag—but he forced himself to stand tall. He approached the altar.

Sarah smiled at him again. "Thanks for being here, Liam. Ben really wanted you to come."

"I wouldn't miss it," Liam said. His voice was rough, unrecognizable even to himself—a stranger's voice.

He looked down at the marriage license.

Groom: Benjamin Davis. Bride: Sarah Miller.

He took the pen. His hand trembled violently, the tip tapping against the paper.

"Here," Sarah said gently. She reached out and steadied the paper for him. "Take your time."

Her fingers brushed his.

The spark was electric. It was violent. It was a lightning strike that traveled up his arm and exploded in his chest. Liam almost dropped the pen.

He looked at her hand—the hand that was now wearing Ben’s ring.

He gritted his teeth, fighting the tremor, fighting the scream building in his throat. He forced his hand to move. He signed his name on the line.

Witness: Liam Blackwood.

It was done. He had signed away his life. He had legally witnessed the end of his own story.

"Congratulations," Liam whispered.

"Thank you," Sarah said.

She leaned up and kissed his cheek. It was a quick, friendly peck. But for Liam, it burned like a brand. It was a final seal.

He turned around. He didn't look at Ben. He didn't stay for the reception. He couldn't watch them cut the cake.

He walked back down the aisle, the sound of his cane echoing in the joyous chapel. Click. Drag. Click. Drag.

He pushed open the heavy doors and stepped out into the snow.

It was Christmas Eve. The bells in the town square began to toll. Bong. Bong.

Liam looked up at the falling snow, letting the flakes melt on his feverish face.

"Merry Christmas, Sarah," he whispered to the wind.

Then he walked into the night, disappearing into the white, silent city, ready to go back to his cabin and wait for the end.