Page 26 of Christmas at Watson Memorial

“There's a light on in the living room. Someone's been inside.”

“Don't be silly, you probably left it on by accident.”

“No way,” I protest. “We should call the police.”

Selene's cheeks flush pink as she rolls her eyes. “Shit, I'm such an idiot. It was supposed to be a surprise,” she mutters.

“A surprise?”

“Just go in,” she nudges me with her chin toward the doorway.

And there it is — a small plastic Christmas tree, decorated in obvious haste, with poorly wrapped presents scattered beneath it.

“Did you do this?” I ask, amazed.

“I might have conspired with Miguel to get your spare key,” she admits with a shrug. “Don't worry, it was for a good cause. I hated seeing your place without any decorations.”

“You broke into my apartment to put up Christmas decorations?”

I should be angry, or at least annoyed, but instead, I bite back a laugh.

“Well, 'decorations' might be stretching it. Just a tiny tree, some garland, and presents. And technically, I didn't break in since I used your spare key — without permission, sure, but then it wouldn't have been a surprise.”

“I can't decide whether to kill you or kiss you,” I tease, pressing my hand to my forehead.

“I vote for the second option.”

“Jesus, you scared me half to death,” I complain, my hand over my racing heart. “I was convinced we had burglars.”

“Let me make you coffee to make up for it,” she winks, guiding me to the couch. “Later, we can open presents and watch a Christmas movie. No schedules, no medical protocols, no checking your phone every thirty seconds. Just us. Relaxed, okay?”

While she bustles in the kitchen, I study the presents under the tree with amusement. Gift-wrapping clearly isn't her strong suit — she's made quite a mess of it. One package, obviously a book, has paper too short on one side, the title visible along the spine. Another smaller gift is wrapped in cartoon paper, all crinkled and secured with blue electrical tape.

“Good thing I'm not dating you for your gift-wrapping skills,” I call out as she returns with two steaming mugs.

“I know January first isn't the usual gift-giving day, but it seemed silly to wait until next Christmas,” she says apologetically. “Just… don't expect anything fancy or expensive.”

“One's definitely a book — I can see the title,” I point out.

“Hope you like that author at least.”

“I do. I'll start with the small one and pretend to be surprised about the book,” I suggest.

But when I open the small package, there's no need to fake surprise — my jaw drops like something out of a cartoon. Inside is a pen. Not just any pen, but one identical to my lucky pen, the one Laura gave me before she died.

“Holy shit,” I whisper, turning it between my fingers. “It's the same model, except this one's…”

“New,” Selene finishes my sentence. “I even tested it to make sure it works.”

I'm speechless, just staring at the pen, rotating it over and over in my hands.

“Please say something,” Selene sighs. “You don't like it?”

“I love it,” I confess. “How did you find it? They stopped making this model twenty years ago.”

“Let's just say I have connections,” she smiles. “A friend owns some antique shops, and I sneaked a photo of your lucky pen one day. Wasn't easy to track down, but there it is. Now you can write prescriptions with it like you wanted andkeep the original safe in your pocket. It's not about the object itself, or what it's worth — it's about what it represents.”

Wrapped around the old pen is a handwritten note: “To help you keep saving lives, while remembering it's okay to hold onto a little magic.”