Page 11 of Daddy's Little Christmas

The hush.

The soft tick of the old wall clock.

The way the shadows gathered around the greenery.

I locked the front door—habit more than necessity—and crossed to the far wall where Arthur and Henry’s portrait hung. The photo wasn’t formal; someone had caught them mid-laugh at the 1961 Winter Dinner. Arthur’s head leaned toward Henry like they were sharing a secret. Henry was squinting at him, as if pretending to be annoyed, but failing utterly.

Winterhaven had restored the portrait in the late nineties, after Henry passed. Every home and business received a copy. I’d grown up seeing it everywhere—my parents’ hallway, the bakery, the lodge. When I took over the shop twenty years ago, I hung it here without thinking.

Now, it was part of closing.

I brushed my thumb along the frame—the kind of ritual you grow into before realizing why it matters.

“All right, gentlemen,” I murmured. “Day’s done.”

Some nights, the words felt like routine.

Tonight, they sat heavier in my chest.

A chill clung to the air, sharper than usual. My shoulders felt heavy from the week, and beneath it all pulsed that quiet hollowness I hadn’t shaken in years—the kind that whispered life was fine, sure, but incomplete in a way I’d long stopped trying to define.

I hummed under my breath while unstringing a strand of cedar garland from a display. Something old. Something my mother used to sing.

The bell above the door rang.

I frowned. I was almost certain I’d locked it.

When I turned, the breath caught in my chest—not dramatically, but in a quiet, almost instinctive way.

A man stood in the doorway.

Or a boy.

No—not a boy. Just… soft. Young-looking. Tense around the edges like someone who’d been holding himself too tight for too long.

His red hair was damp at the ends, snow melting down into little curls. His coat was heavier than what most locals wore, which made me think he wasn’t from here. The way he hovered just inside the threshold suggested he wasn’t used to spaces that welcomed him right away.

His eyes—bright, uncertain, scanning like he was working out the rules—landed on me.

Something in my chest shifted.

I didn’t have a name for it, but I’d felt it before around people who were… Fragile wasn’t the right word. Untethered.Untucked. Like a gust of wind had blown them out of their own skin.

I wiped my hands on my apron and gentled my voice without thinking.

“Evening,” I said. “You’re welcome to come in.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth—tired, polite, grateful. “Good evening,” he replied. His voice was soft—worn-in, an end-of-day soft, not uncertain.

“Feel free to look around,” I added.

“Thanks,” he murmured, offering a polite nod before wandering a few paces in.

He moved slowly through the shop, the way people do when they’re trying to convince themselves they aren’t exhausted. Snow still clung to the seams of his coat, melting into dark patches that reflected the warm light. When his fingers brushed the edge of a winter centerpiece—pine needles, a ribbon the color of mulled wine—his breath eased.

I pretended to straighten a vase on the counter so I wouldn’t look like a man watching too closely, but truthfully, I noticed everything—the careful way he held himself, the grief tucked into the corners of his posture, the gentleness that seemed baked into his bones. He was weathered. Worn at the edges the way a favorite book gets worn, not from mistreatment but from being held too tightly for too long.

When his attention landed on one of the little reindeer plushes, his expression softened. He picked up the reindeer carefully. Not like it was fragile, but like it deserved the same gentleness he was giving everything else in the shop. The overhead garland lightscast a warm glow over him, softening the tiredness around his eyes.