Chapter Twenty-Five
Christmas comes back to us quietly.
Not with fireworks or dramatic returns, but with familiarity—the kind that feels earned. The city wears its lights again, softer this time, as if it knows we don’t need spectacle to believe.
It’s our first winter as husband and wife.
That sentence still feels unreal when I think it, like something borrowed from another life. I say it sometimes just to hear it aloud, to remind myself that this joy is not imaginary.
Our apartment smells like cinnamon and pine. A small tree stands by the window, slightly crooked, decorated with ornaments that don’t match—some new, some inherited, some bought impulsively on cold afternoons when we wanted an excuse to walk longer together.
Noah hums in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, flour dusting th
