Page 8 of Remain

“You always forget how cold it gets here, don’t you?” he says mildly, teasing. “They get snow in New York, right? I’ve seen the movies.”

I let out a breath that might almost be a laugh. “I did not forget.”

“You did,” he quips easily. “You always did.”

I tug my coat tighter, suddenly hyperaware of how close he is and how steady he feels. Of how unsteady I feel.

“It’s not this bad there,” I mutter, trying to prevent my teeth from chattering.

“Sure,” he jokes. “And I’m sure you miss this.”

“I…,” I stop myself. “You look… different.”

Something flashes in his eyes at that. “And so do you.”

The words land heavier than I expect.

For a second, neither of us moves, completely frozen inthis moment in time. Then he steps closer to me, just enough that the space between us feels intentional. “Welcome home.”

3

Erik

The square smells like sap,cold metal and sugar this time of year. An interesting combination, to most, but to me it’s home.

I’m standing on a ladder, fingers numb as I work a strand of lights into place along the edge of the gazebo roof. The metal rungs bite through my gloves, but I don’t rush. Pineview doesn’t reward haste. It rewards showing up, year after year, and doing the same things even when no one’s watching.

Below me, the town hums. Kids chase each other across the icy pavement, breathless and loud. Parents corral them with half-hearted warnings, laughter threading through the cold. Someone’s set up a couple speakers near the coffee shop, and a familiar Christmas song drifts through the air, worn thin from decades of repetition and still somehow capable of landing right in the heart.

This square has always been Savannah’s favorite.

She used to say Christmas here felt like the town breathing all at once. She’s right. She usually was but I would have hated for her to have known that.

“Don’t forget the left side,” Mrs. Kincaid calls up from below. “It always looks crooked if you forget the left side.”

“I know,” I say, though she can’t hear the smile in my voice.

Idoknow. I know where the cords snag and which bulbs flicker if you don’t twist them just right. I know which strand goes up first because Savannah once tripped over it carrying hot chocolate and laughed so hard she cried.

That’s Pineview. There’s comfort in the predictability. Comfort in the quiet understanding that some things don’t need reinventing, they just need tending to.

I climb down and step back to check my work. The lights glow warm against the early dusk, softening the edges of the square, making everything feel held. Christmas always does that here. It wraps the town in something gentler, something that makes memories surface.

I usually think of Savannah this time of year. I just don’t say it out loud.

Every December, without fail, there’s a moment, usually when the lights come on for the first time, when I picture her beside me, hands shoved into the pockets of my jacket because she never dressed warm enough, chin tipped up as she pointed out which spots still needed fixing. She always noticed the details. Always cared that things felt right, not just finished.

It’s a thought I keep to myself. One I fold away with the ornaments and the extension cords and all the things you don’t touch unless the season gives you permission to.

That’s when Mrs. Kincaid appears at my elbow, clipboard tucked against her chest like she’s bracing for impact.

“She’s back,” she says casually, like she’s commenting on the weather.

My chest tightens anyway.

“Savannah Joy,” she adds, peering up at the lights like they’ve suddenly become very interesting. “Signed up for The Christmas Kindness Drive. After all these years.”

For a second, the world narrows. The laughter dulls. The cold sharpens. The ground feels less firm beneath my boots. The woman who has lived quietly in the back of my mind every Christmas suddenly isn’t just a memory anymore.