The scent of cinnamon and nutmeg wafted through the air as Scarlett descended the stairs of her family home. Her fingers trailed along the wooden railing, every inch of the place etched into her memories—though not all of them pleasant.
Her mother stood by the stove, humming a Christmas carol as she flipped pancakes. The sight of her mother alive, vibrant, and so full of life sent a pang through Scarlett’s chest. The woman who had been little more than a ghost in Scarlett’s life in her later years was now here, real and whole.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” her mother said, glancing over her shoulder with a warm smile. “I was starting to think you’d sleep through breakfast.”
Scarlett froze at the sight of her. Her heart twisted painfully as she remembered how distant her mother had grown after
