Page 34 of Remain

A small stuffed bear.

The breath rushes out of me so fast it hurts, like my body understands the meaning of it before my mind can catch up. “What is this?”

“That,” Ruth says, her voice breaking softly through the quiet, “is the first Christmas your mother ever received a gift.”

I look up at her, shaking my head, the denial instinctive. “That’s not… she never, she never talked about…”

“And she never would have,” Ruth says gently as she steps closer, her gaze dropping back to the photograph so we can take it in together. “Diane grew up too fast, the way some children do when life isn’t kind to them. Christmas was inconsistent for her. Some years there was something. Some years there was nothing. Most years, there was only silence and cold.”

My fingers curl tighter around the photograph, my knuckles going white as if holding it is the only thing keeping me upright.

“My father owned the store then,” Ruth continues, eyes distant now, anchored in memory. “Your mother used to come in after school. She ever asked for anything. She never bought anything either. She just looked. She’d wander the aisles, getting lost in a dream. I started keeping small toys behind the counter. You know, small things I could wrap quickly. Quietly.”

My throat tightens.

“She never asked for anything, but she always said thank you. I think the gesture of kindness mattered more to her than the gift.” Ruth tenderly places her hand on my shoulder, squeezing it.

I press the photo to my chest, the image burning its way into me.

Erik’s mother steps closer, her voice soft but unshakable. “Your mother carried that kindness with her,” she says gently. “She carried it always, and then she passed it along.”

She places another photograph into my hands, and this one I recognize immediately. I saw it just the other night. My mother is beaming, kneeling beside a small boy clutching a red truck.

My heart stutters.

“I…” My voice breaks, and I have to stop and clear my throat before trying again. “I found this the other night. At the house. I didn’t know who it was.”

Beside me, Erik goes very still.

His mother nods slowly. “That’s…”

“It’s me,” Erik says, the words rushing out with a relief that feels like he’s been holding them back for a lifetime. “That’s me.”

In that moment, the world fractures and reassembles before I can catch my breath. Everything rushes in at once, the way Erik froze in front of his childhood home, the way his hands shook after handing the boys their gifts, the way he turned away too quickly, his breath ragged, his eyes too bright and too far away, already slipping backward, already reliving something I hadn’t known how to see.

“That’s where it started,” his mother says softly. “For us. For your mother. For The Christmas Kindness Drive.” She looks at me then, her voice balanced despite the emotionbeneath it. “She started it, Savannah. She started it for us. For my family. For my boys.”

Erik finally looks at me, really looks at me, like there’s no hiding left now.

“My mom was leaving,” he tells me, his voice bare now. “It was a bad situation. Four boys. No money. No tree. No presents.”

My chest aches, tight and hollow all at once.

“Your mom found out,” he continues. “I still don’t know how she knew about us. She just… showed up.”

His mother smiles through her tears. “She filled an entire shopping cart with gifts for my boys and dressed it up like a sleigh. I thought there had been some mistake. I kept waiting for someone to come back and say it wasn’t meant for us. To take it all away.”

I look down at the photograph again, taking in my mother’s face, bright with kindness and already choosing generosity without needing recognition.

“She never told me,” I whisper.

Ruth Levin steps closer. “She didn’t give to be remembered. She gave because it was her calling in this life. She knew what it felt like to be without and never wanted anyone else to feel that way.”

Erik swallows hard. “That red truck,” his voice breaking as his fist presses against his chest. “It was my safety. I slept with it. Took it everywhere. I kept it until the wheels fell off.”

Something inside me caves in completely.

“And when she got sick?” I ask quietly, my gaze locking with his. Our eyes are both shining now, caught in that knowing space where the truth has already passed between us.