Page 59 of Daddy's Little Christmas

A little girl stood at one of the writing tables, tongue tucked between her teeth in fierce concentration. Her father hovered nearby, offering help she clearly did not want. I knew them—Javier Alvarez and his youngest. She’d been born in a January storm bad enough to close the roads for two days.

Rudy slowed beside me.

“What’s this?” he asked, already leaning in to read the sign.

“Letters to Tomorrow,” I said. “We do it every year.”

His mouth tipped into a small, curious smile. “Everyone?”

“Anyone who wants to.” I paused. “Kids. Adults. People who’ve lived here forever. People who just arrived.”

“Do you read them later?” he asked.

“No.” I shook my head. “That’s the point. They stay sealed. Some years we burn them together. Some years we bury them. Depends on what the town needs.”

He glanced at the box again, thoughtful.

“My dad built it,” I added. “My mom used to say people needed a place to put things. Not answers. Just… somewhere to set them down.”

Rudy nodded slowly.

“We didn’t do things like this when I was growing up,” he said after a moment. “No letters. No hopes written down. You were supposed to… manage your own stuff.”

There was no bitterness in his voice. Just observation.

“You don’t have to,” I said. “Participate, I mean. It’s not a requirement.”

He looked at me, then back at the tables where people were writing quietly, shoulders bent, faces intent.

“I think I want to,” he said.

I gestured toward the nearest table. “Take your time. I’ll be right here.”

I stepped back just enough to give him space, close enough to see him out of the corner of my eye. He chose a piece of papercarefully, tested one pen, then another, like he felt the weight of the words before he’d even written them.

I didn’t try to read. Didn’t try to guess.

I just watched the way his shoulders shifted as he wrote, the way he paused, breathed, started again. The way he folded the letter with deliberate care before carrying it to the box.

When he slipped it through the slot, he didn’t rush away.

He stood there for a second longer, fingers resting on the worn oak, like he was making sure it would hold.

And I thought, not for the first time that day, that bringing him here had been the right choice.

A familiar laugh cut through the low murmur of the square.

I hadn’t heard it in nearly two weeks—not since Sheriff Tom Warren had gone out of state for a regional conference.

He’d only gotten back into town late last night.

He was in a Santa suit—red felt dusted with snow, the fake beard. Even dressed like that, there was no mistaking him. Broad-shouldered, solid, planted in the world the same way he’d always been. The same guy that had been at my side since we were boys tearing across frozen ponds and getting hauled home by our collars.

“Well, look who finally came home,” I said.

Tom grinned. “Miss me?”

“Town’s been quieter without you,” I said. “In a suspicious way.”