Chapter 11 Lights in the Window
Eleven ~ Lights in the Window
Mara
IBought A Christmas Tree. I Don’t Know What Possessed Me.
Maybe madness.
Maybe hope.
Maybe the fact that this is the first December in years where I don’t feel like I’m simply enduring the season rather than living inside it.
The man at the lot had raised an eyebrow when I pointed to the tallest tree in the back row, fat branches, deep green, easily six and a half feet tall. I’m five-three on a good day. My apartment ceilings barely clear eight feet. The tree definitely didn’t fit through the stairwell gracefully.
But I wanted it. Not the plastic kind either.
A real one. One with sap that sticks to your fingers and needles that scatter across the floor like nature’s confetti.
The scent alone was enough to make something in me unclench.
Like I’d inhaled a memory of being ten years old, standing beside my mother while she strung popcorn and cranberries and hummed along to some old record.
He’ll be out by Christmas. December twenty-third. Two days.
I dragged the tree up three flights of stairs, anyway, muttering under my breath the whole way. I scraped my knuckles on the doorframe and got pine needles tangled in my scarf. My neighbor from 4B opened her door at one point and blinked at me like I’d lost my mind.
“Bit late for that,” she said with a laugh.
“Never too late,” I answered, breathless, and kept wrestling the tree around the landing.
By the time I shoved it through my doorway, my arms were shaking, and my hair looked like a squirrel had nested in it.
But I didn’t care. I set the tree in its little red stand, tightened the bolts at the base until it stood tall and proud, and stepped back.
It felt… right. Even a little magical. Like I’d invited something warm into a room that had been holding its breath for too long.
I decorated slowly. One ornament at a time.
Glass balls, tiny, knitted stockings, a few star-shaped cutouts I made as a kid that somehow survived two apartment moves and a breakup.
The lights were last. Warm lights, soft yellow, not the harsh blue-white ones.
The kind that makes a room look like a memory, like something softened around the edges.
And as I worked, as each light blinked on, I kept thinking:
What if he comes?
Not will he. Not maybe he won’t. Just—what if?
What if he really does show up on my doorstep?
What if I open the door and he’s standing there, a little unsure, a little bruised from life but free? What if everything we’ve written—every quiet truth, every hesitant line—finally steps out of paper and into the world?
I tried not to imagine too much. Tried not to picture him too clearly. It felt dangerous somehow, to build someone out of ink and longing. But every time I hung a new ornament, his voice, his words, echoed softly in my chest.
You’ve been the only clear thing in a fog of months.
And my heart, traitorous as ever, whispered back: Same.
After the tree, I baked. Because Christmas apparently brings out the domestic in me.
Or maybe I needed something else to do with my hands besides obsessively re-reading his last letter.
Cinnamon rolls seemed appropriate. Soft dough, warm spice, icing that melted into the swirls.
I burned my tongue; of course, I never wait long enough.
I ended up eating three in rapid succession like a gremlin who’d never seen food before.
I wrapped the rest in foil. Some went into the freezer. Some I set aside on a plate, as if he might walk through the door at any moment and I’d be able to offer him something warm. Ridiculous. But I didn’t throw them out.
When the apartment fell quiet again, the only sound was the soft ticking of the radiator and the faint hum of the fridge. I curled up on the couch with his last letter in my hand. I’d read it so many times that the paper was starting to soften at the folds.
December 23rd.
I’ll be out by Christmas.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hope.
My eyes lingered on the last lines.
I won’t show up unless I believe I’m something worth finding.
But if I do…
Would you still want me to?
I pressed the letter against my chest and exhaled shakily. God. He still didn’t see it. Still didn’t understand that he already is worth finding.
Worth waiting for.
Worth hoping for.
Not because he threw a punch or stood up to a monster that night. But because he listened. Because he wrote. Because he told the truth even when it cost him something.
Every time I hear boots on the stairs, I sit up straighter.
Every time the buzzer rings downstairs, I freeze.
Every time someone knocks on a door in the hallway, my breath catches. Nothing yet. But the day’s not over.
As Evening Settled In, The World Outside My Window Went Soft With Falling Snow. The streetlights haloed each flake like it was something miraculous. Cars hissed over the slush. A dog barked somewhere down the street.
Inside, the tree glowed like it belonged here, like it had always belonged. I stood and walked to the small side table near the door, where a tiny, wrapped gift sat on top. I bought it three nights ago. Didn’t mean to. Just saw it and knew instantly that it was his.
A vintage compass. Brass casing, a little rust around the edges, real glass cover. The needle still sharp and steady. No batteries, no GPS, no modern conveniences. Just an arrow and true north.
I’d found it in the window of a thrift shop, wedged between a stack of old books and a chipped ceramic mug. I’d stepped inside without thinking and bought it before the owner even had time to say hello.
It reminded me of him. A man who feels lost and steady at the same time. A man who survived by instinct. A man who keeps moving, even when he doesn’t know where home is.
I tied a little card to the gift with twine:
“So, you always find your way back. – M”
When I pick it up now, the tag flutters slightly, the handwriting small and careful, the ink a little smudged from my thumb.
I smile at it, even though I feel like an idiot.
Because what if he doesn’t come? What if I misunderstood everything?
What if I’m just a letter to him, an escape hatch in a world that took too much from him?
What if he steps out into the snow on his first day of freedom and decides not to look back at the girl who only knew him through paper?
The thought settles cold in my stomach. I press my palm against it like I can smooth it away. Still… I leave the porch light on. Just in case. Just in case he finds his way here. Just in case he chooses this door out of all the doors in the world. Just in case hope wasn’t foolish after all.
The tree lights blink softly as the hours stretch. I do little things to distract myself, rearrange the ornaments, fluff the couch cushions, wipe down the counters, even though I cleaned them twice already.
But every so often, I walk to the window and peer through the curtain. The street below glistens under the snow. A few people hurry past, bundled in their coats, heads bowed against the cold. No leather jacket. No tall figure. No familiar silhouette.
The clock on the wall creeps toward midnight.
December 23rd is almost over. My chest tightens.
I tell myself he probably had to go through paperwork, or meetings, or half a dozen hurdles the system throws at a man who’s trying to leave it behind.
I tell myself he might not even have a ride.
Might not know how to get here. He might…
not be ready. And if he’s not, that has to be okay. Right?
I sigh and turn off the lamps, leaving only the tree to light the room. The shadows dance across the walls, soft and golden, almost tender. The couch looks inviting for once. The blanket draped over the back smells faintly of lavender from the last time I washed it.
I pull it down, wrap it around myself, and curl into the corner of the cushions.
The compass sits on the table by the door, waiting.
The porch light glows. The snow falls. I close my eyes.
I don’t mean to fall asleep. I mean to wait.
Just a little longer. Another hour. Maybe two.
But exhaustion pulls at me, the emotional kind, the kind that wraps itself around your bones and whispers, rest. My breathing evens out.
The lights blur behind my eyelids. The warmth of the blanket seeps into my skin.
And in the quiet glow of the Christmas tree, the last thought drifting through my mind is not fear or doubt.
It’s simply:
Please let him come.
And then sleep takes me, soft as falling snow.