Page 32 of Remain

She studies my face as if she’s searching for traces of the girl she once knew, and finding something familiar anyway. “Grief is awful,” she says softly. “The way it steals so much from us. And yet, look at you. Beautiful, just like your mother.”

I blink fast, emotion pressing in from all sides. “I miss her. So much.”

Her grip tightens. “I know, dear. We all do.”

For a moment, none of us speaks. The air seems to hold us there, heavy with grief, even as our hands remain linked. Then she releases one of mine and reaches into the pocket of her coat.

What she pulls out isn’t wrapped. It’s small and worn, the paper softened with age, its corners bent from years of being carried. She presses it into my palm with a certainty that feels practiced, as if this part has always been inevitable.

I look down. It’s a stack of two photographs.

The room feels thinner all at once, as though the air itself has been borrowed by whatever truth is waiting to surface. I hear her turn to Erik before I fully understand what’s happening.

“Erik,” she says gently, firmly. “I think it’s time.”

His jaw tightens, his throat working as he exhales slowly through his nose, the sound uneven despite his effort to steady it.

“Time for what?” I ask, though my heart is already racing ahead of the answer.

No one speaks.

The photograph trembles in my hand as I stare down at it, my pulse roaring louder than the hum of the room, louder than the scrape of chairs, louder than the quiet murmur of volunteers pretending not to watch.

Whatever this is, it has been waiting a long time.

And it has been waiting for me.

13

Erik

I knewthis moment would come.

I just didn’t know it would look like this, with Christmas morning light streaking through the community center windows, and Savannah standing mere feet away with my past shaking in her hands.

I thought about burning it once, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I also thought about giving it her hundreds of time. I never did. It’s the kind of truth that once it’s revealed, nothing goes back. Nothing will ever be the same again.

My mom’s hand rests lightly on my arm, grounding and apologetic all at once. She’s been carrying this longer than anyone. Even longer than me.

Savannah looks at the photo again, then up at me, confusion and recognition starting to collide behind her eyes.

I don’t step forward. If I do, I won’t stop. I know it will all come tumbling out of me.

Mrs. Kincaid busies herself at the table with Mrs. Levin, making a deliberate show of papers and lists, giving us space in the way she always has by pretending not to notice what matters most, even as she manages to keep one ear tuned to everyone’s business.

I swallow hard.

This was never about credit. It was about keeping something alive.

I keep repeating the words in my mind. I’ve been rehearsing this for years.

When Savannah left years ago, the town kept spinning. The holidays came and went, and The Christmas Kindness Drive kept returning year after year, stubborn and unmovable, exactly as it always had.

People like to think traditions survive on their own. They don’t. Someone has to choose them. Someone has to carry them when it would be easier to let go.

My mother steps closer before I can stop her, and I feel it immediately, the shift in the room, the way Savannah stiffens just a fraction. Mom’s eyes flick to me first, quick and assessing, the way they always have when she’s checking whether I’m holding together. Then she looks back at Savannah and reaches for her hands.

“I wanted to see you today,” even to me her voice sounds unstable. “Today felt important.”