28. Lilian
Chapter 28
Lilian
T he front door is cold beneath my fingers when I push it open. There’s no wreath or garland, and not a single pretty twinkling light to be found. The latch clicks shut softly behind me, and I adjust the ribbon on the tin of sugar cookies as I step into the hall.
“Merry Christmas, Daddy!” I call, my heels clicking sharp against the floor, the sound echoing behind me.
The french doors to the office are half-closed, but his voice carries through the gap.
“I don’t care what he does with her once it’s final.”
He looks up and sees me coming closer and waves a hand toward me before turning away. Dismissive.
I tip my head, smile still glued in place, and slip into the kitchen. The space is more than clean, like it’s been sterilized for surgery instead of shared meals and soft moments.
“Just make it happen. I don’t have time to watch her, and I can’t get rid of her now. Not after they fucked it up the first time. ”
I arrange a couple of cookies on one of Daddy’s little white plates—spaced just right so they won’t smudge. I grab a napkin and pour him a glass of milk, placing the gift box beside them.
I’d wrapped it in silver paper and a pretty green velvet ribbon. Then finished it off with a little faux holly sprig that wouldn’t stay on until I used three dabs of glue and told it—quite seriously—to behave.
He walks in just as I’m fluffing the ribbon, still on a call, and still frowning. It’s sad that work can’t let him have a single holiday off. Poor Daddy—always working far too hard.
“Yeah. That’ll work. I have to go. She’s here.”
He ends the call with a sharp swipe and turns toward me, eyes briefly flicking over the setup.
“What’s this?”
“It’s for you,” I say, smiling. “Merry Christmas.”
He sighs like I’ve handed him a puzzle with too many pieces. Then tugs the ribbon loose with a flick of his wrist. The paper I’d painstakingly wrapped tears too fast.
He pulls out the mug first and reads it while I stare at his face, hoping to lift his spirits.
“It’s heat-sensitive,” I offer, voice bright. “The stars change when it’s warm. I thought it might look nice on your desk.”
He doesn’t respond and puts it down, pushing it away.
The pen comes next. He checks the brand and nods like he’s filing it away for later.
“At least this one’s real.” It’s more than real. It’s a limited edition—only a hundred in the world with this design.
The frame came last and it was arguably the one I was most excited about. He pulls it from the box, turns it once in his hand .
“The cat again?”
“That’s Oley,” I say. “And of course, he’s part of the family.” He sets the photo face-down without further comment.
“We’re going to a party at the end of the week.”
I blink. “A party?”
“Yes, for New Year’s Eve. It’s formal. Wear something appropriate.”
I nod slowly. “Of course. That sounds nice. I’ll?—”
“There’s someone I want you to meet. The son of a colleague. He’s looking forward to meeting you.”
Something cold drips behind my ribs, but I’m not sure why. I tilt my head, smile, reach for steadiness like it’s just out of reach. “That’s nice, Daddy. I always enjoy meeting your friend?—”
“He’s not a friend, but he is the son of someone important.”
“I see,” I say softly. “I’ll need to make sure I don’t have anything else?—”
“No, Lilian. You will be there,” he says, without raising his voice. He doesn’t have to. It lands like the command it was meant to be, and I’m nodding before I’ve even felt the shape of it.
His phone buzzes again. He checks it, exhales through his nose, and walks away without another word—already back on the call before he rounds the corner.
I stay where I am, cookies and milk untouched.
The ribbon’s still looped between my fingers—soft and crumpled. I smooth it out carefully. Just in case he decides to keep it. It’s a nice ribbon.
I hum to myself as I wander—just a soft melody from a few Christmas songs that seem to be competing for space within my mind. The hallway near his office always feels colder—sharper—even though the temperature is still the same.
The door’s slightly ajar and I pause, hand brushing the edge to close it, knowing daddy never means to leave it open.
I blink?—
My head cocks to the side and a smirk twists across my face.
And step into the belly of the beast.
The air tastes like bleach and buried confessions—like someone sprayed Febreze over a grave and called it good. Every breath hums with static, like the walls themselves are trying to hold their breath.
I move quiet. Surgical. Fingers drifting over handles I already know won’t be locked—because monsters like him think locks are for other people.
And boom. Desk drawer opens like an apology.
What do we have here?
Passcode logs. Entry schedules. A sticky note with keycard rotations and a smudge of what’s either coffee or blood. Sloppy bastard. Sloppy gets people killed.
“What are you doing?”
I blink several times, like coming out of a fog. It’s been happening more and more lately. Daddy’s standing in the doorway, staring at me like I’ve done something wrong.
I laugh softly, fingers fluttering at the edge of my skirt and look around confused. “Oh—silly me. How did I get in here? I must’ve wandered in without thinking. Strange.”
He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flick to the drawer. Then back to me.
“You opened the door,” he says.
“I guess I did.” I giggle, cheeks warming. “Even though I’m certain I meant to close it. I don’t even remember coming in here. I must’ve thought I was somewhere else.”
“You’ve lived in this house your whole life.”
“I know,” I say, smiling brighter. “But you know how I am—always floating off somewhere.”
I step past him like nothing’s wrong even if I have a strange feeling that everything is. I shake my head and laugh to myself. Of course everything’s fine.
On the way out, I press a kiss to his cheek, light as snow.
“Merry Christmas, Daddy.”
A hand wraps around my throat.
I wake with a gasp—sharp and soft, the kind that isn’t fear. Not really. Mostly disoriented.
“I told you I’d be back,” he growls against my ear. Low. Rough. Sending heat rushing to my core.
“Now get up.”
I don’t ask why.
I don’t scream.
I just nod, lips parting like they always do for him.
“Dominic…”
His hand tightens—not cruel, just firm enough to remind me who I belong to. Like I’d ever want to forget.
I rise without thinking.
Knees unsteady.
Sleep shirt brushing my thighs as I swing my legs over the edge of the bed.
He’s already stripped off his coat and gloves. Leaving him standing in a black t-shirt and black denim—button already unhooked.
I watch him. Barefoot. Bare-faced. Breath caught somewhere in the hollow of my chest.
“Did you miss me?” I whisper. Desperate to know if he ached for me the same way I did for him.
He doesn’t answer. Just slams me into the wall like he’s afraid of saying too much.
And I know—I know—he missed me too.
His mouth crushes against mine with no warning and no hesitation. It’s not a kiss. It’s a brand, a punishment, and a promise all rolled into one.
My nightgown rides up in his fists as he lifts me.
He says nothing, doesn’t ask for permission.
Just the sharp drag of my panties to the side and the blunt, perfect thrust of him inside me.
I cry out—head tipping back, the sound cracking halfway into something desperate.
“Dominic—”
He fucks me like I’m the reward for surviving hell. Each thrust is vicious—beautiful—like he’s trying to burn something out of both of us.
I cling to him, fingers digging into his back.
“Yes! Take what you need from me,” I cry, dizzy with joy.
He growls—deep and feral—and drives deeper.
My body shakes, and I choke out a sob as I feel the pressure building. My orgasm hits fast, brutal, stars exploding behind my eyes as I cry out his name.
But he’s not finished.
He pulls out—only for a breath—then throws me onto the bed before prowling back over to me. He flips me to my stomach, lifts my hips into the air and shoves my head down into the mattress.
The room tilts.
I barely register the sound before I feel it?—
He yanks the barrier between us apart and the fabric splits like silk. Exposing everything to him and leaving me gasping.
“You’re mine,” he snarls.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Yes, Dominic, I’m yours?—”
Something cold drips between my cheeks—slick, unexpected. His fingers press in slow, deliberate. There’s nothing gentle about it and it’s just enough to make me squirm.
Just enough to tease.
To taunt.
“Please,” I whisper, already breathless.
“Please, I can take it—I promise, I can—” I beg, desperate for him to use me.
He doesn’t answer.
Doesn’t warn me.
He just shifts lower—and I feel the blunt head of him press against that tight ring of muscles.
My eyes fly open.
“There?” I gasp. “You want—there?”
He growls—low and rough, right at my ear.
“I want all of you.”
Then he thrusts his full length into me in one quick motion. He doesn’t give me time to adjust to this new feeling. He doesn’t slow.
He slams into me. Hard. Deep. Without mercy.
My gasp turns into a cry—high and broken. The stretch is brutal. Raw. Perfect .
It burns. It rips something open in me that isn’t just physical.
“That’s it,” he growls. “Take it.”
My hands claw at the sheets. My thighs tremble. Tears slip from the corners of my eyes, soaking into the pillow. But they’re not from fear.
They’re from pure pleasure.
“Hurts,” I sob, barely able to breathe. “It hurts so good—don’t stop—please, don’t stop?—”
He fucks me deep. His movements are brutal.
One hand in my hair, yanking hard. The other planted against my lower back, holding me in place like I might try to run—like I even could. I’ll be lucky if I can even move after this.
Every thrust punches a sound out of me. A whimper. A moan. A cry that sounds like begging—because it is.
“You’re mine,” he snarls, again and again, like it’s a prayer.
“This body. This cunt. This tight fucking hole. All of it. Mine.”
“Say it!”
“Yes,” I sob. “Yes, I’m yours. Only?—”
I don’t even feel the orgasm coming until it’s on me—violent, blinding, ripping through me as I scream his name like a promise of devotion.
“Only yours,” I whisper, voice wrecked. “Forever.”
He finishes inside me—deep, slow, with a shudder that makes me feel sacred.
He stays buried, breathing hard.
I tremble beneath him. My thighs ache. My eyes sting.
But my smile ?
Radiant.
Worshipful.
“Merry Christmas,” I whisper.
He stands. Tucks himself away.
“I have something for you.”
Stares at me—my legs still spread, my body used, perfect.
“Don’t move.”
I don’t. I listen like the good girl I am for him.
The sound of water running soothes the air, and then he’s back?—
A warm washcloth in hand.
He kneels.
Spreads my thighs.
Wipes me down with a gentleness that makes my heart ache.
When I flinch, he slows.
“Color?” he mutters.
“Pink,” I sigh. “Always pink.”
He helps me sit. Smooths my damp hair.
Goes to my dresser—doesn’t even look around—just pulls the right drawer like he’s done it before.
White bunny shorts. Matching tank.
He helps me into them, careful not to tug too hard on the hem or the straps.
His fingers graze mine as he adjusts the neckline.
“Thank you.” I beam at him. He’ll always take care of me.
“You said you had something for me.”
“Oh!” I gasp when I jump up, my body feeling the effects of the last half hour. I know my cheeks are glowing, both with embarrassment and excitement. “Yes. Yes, come with me!”
Dominic raises a brow but lets me lead him— barefoot, bare-chested, pants riding low on his hips as I pull him down the hallway like it’s Christmas morning.
Which, well—it basically is. Just… a little late.
The living room glows like a dream I built out of paper and glitter and too many fairy lights. Our tiny tree is crooked in the corner, strung with mismatched ornaments and crowned with a bow I tied myself. Paper snowflakes dangle from the ceiling, each one hand-cut and imperfect in a way that makes them more mine. More ours.
I stop in front of the tree and spin to face him.
“Close your eyes.”
He gives me a look. Flat. Dangerous. Yet amused.
“No peeking,” I sing, already bubbling with excitement.
Dominic exhales through his nose but humors me, shutting his eyes like he’s bracing for a scolding, not a present.
I shuffle to the tree and grab the first gift. It’s the biggest one—red wrapping paper with silver snowflakes and a velvet ribbon that took me three tries to get right.
“Okay,” I say, setting it in his hands. “Now you can look.”
He opens his eyes. Looks down at the box like it might bite him. Such a silly man.
And then, slowly, carefully, he starts to unwrap it.
The second he peels back the top flap, I bounce on my heels.
Inside is a red knit sweater. Oversized. Absurdly soft. And stitched across the front, slightly off-center and a little too big, is Oley’s face tangled in Christmas lights and silver tinsel, wearing the world’s angriest Santa hat.
Dominic blinks.
“That’s—your cat. ”
“Our cat,” I correct, beaming. “He tolerates you now. That’s practically love.”
He looks from the sweater to the real Oley, who’s perched on the armrest like a furry little gargoyle, lording over the rest of us.
“Pretty sure he tried to smother me in my sleep last week.”
“He only does that to people he loves,” I say smirking, knowing perfectly well Oley might have a touch of murderous intent in general.
Dominic snorts under his breath and sets the sweater aside.
I dive back toward the tree and hand him the next gift. It’s flat. Black paper. Tied with a single white ribbon.
He unwraps it faster this time, but when he sees what’s inside, he stills.
A simple black frame. Matte. Clean. Five memories behind glass.
The first is us at the Christmas market. I’m smiling so hard it hurts. He’s not looking at the camera, he’s looking at me. Like I’m the sun in his universe. Just thinking that makes me flush.
The second one is so adorable. It’s Oley sleeping on his chest. Both of them knocked out, one of Oley’s paws resting right over Dominic’s heart.
The third is one of us in bed. He’s asleep, sprawled out like someone finally safe enough to do so. I’m curled beside him, cheek on his shoulder, grinning like I’ve won the lottery.
The fourth is from our movie night on the couch. I’d made popcorn. He’d taken off his shirt because the bandage was too warm. We never finished the movie. He fell asleep halfway through. I didn’t.
And finally, the fifth one is of the very first flowers he left me. One lily and one sprig of oleander. In the glass vase I’d put them in, sunlit and waiting.
Dominic doesn’t say anything. His hands are still. His mouth is still. Only his eyes move.
“I know it’s a lot,” I say gently. “But I thought… you know. You might like having something real. Something to look at. Something that’s… us.”
He doesn’t speak, but I see his gaze land on the bouquet.
“I meant to ask,” I say, tilting my head. “Where did you find oleander? We’ve never had it in the shop since it’s so poisonous. Not even in special orders.”
His expression doesn’t change, not really—but there’s something in the set of his jaw. The slight twitch of a muscle near his temple.
“I have my ways,” he says, voice low, and maybe a little bit too careful.
I smile and scoop Oley off the armrest, holding him to my chest like a squirmy little pillow.
“Mr. Oleander and I had a talk about that, actually,” I add brightly. “I told him just because he shares a name with something poisonous doesn’t mean he gets to act like a little menace.”
Oley growls and buries his face in my shirt.
“He hissed at the bouquet and then sat in the sink for an hour like he was punishing me.”
Dominic watches me. Still. Quiet.
I press a kiss to Oley’s fur and smile at both of them.
“But we love them. Me and Oley. We think they’re beautiful. ”
Dominic doesn’t blink. He just looks at me like he’s waiting for something.
“I’m glad,” he says finally, placing the frame gently on the table, picture side up.
I reach under the tree and grab the last box. It’s small with oddly shaped edges. I didn’t wrap it very well.
When I hand it to him, my fingers shake a little.
He opens it.
Inside is the ornament I spent hours working on.
Red ribbon. Gold hook. And dangling in the center—the bullet I pulled from him, cleaned and polished, glinting in the soft light.
“It’s yours,” I say quietly. “The one that hurt you. The one that brought you to me when you needed me most.”
He stares at it and then stares at me.
“You made a Christmas ornament out of the bullet that shot me?”
“Well, it’s festive,” I say nervously. “I didn’t know what else to do with it.”
For a second, I think he might say something awful. Something that breaks the night in half.
“I’m so?—”
But then—he laughs.
It’s rough and short and sounds like it hurt coming out, but it’s real. And it’s beautiful and it lasts far longer than a second.
“That’s the first time you’ve truly laughed,” I whisper.
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late.”
I step close, stand on tiptoe, and press the ornament to his chest .
“You’re keeping it,” I say.
He doesn’t argue, just smiles and kisses me.
I’m about to settle beside him, already picturing how we’ll fit together—my legs draped over his, Oley curled in a judgmental loaf nearby, the soft glow from the tree casting golden rings across the room like halos we didn’t expect but somehow ended up with. I want the moment to stretch, to settle into something domestic and quiet, the kind of peace people search their whole lives for and never get to hold.
But then he looks at me and I feel something shift. Not in him exactly, and not in me either. It’s more like the room itself has gone still. Like it’s waiting for something. The air thickens—not with tension, but with anticipation, the kind that hums beneath your skin when you know something important is about to happen but don’t want to startle it. It feels as if the space around us is holding its breath, and the weight of it shifts in a way I can’t quite track.
Dominic reaches for his coat he must’ve discarded on the couch on his way in.
It’s a subtle movement, but my body still goes quiet. Not with fear—never that—but with reverence. His hand disappears into a pocket deep, the kind of hidden compartment that doesn’t exist unless you’re carrying something you don’t want the world to touch. And then he turns, and in his hand is a small black box.
There’s no paper or ribbon. No tag. No flourish. It’s not traditionally wrapped like a gift, but I know that’s exactly what it is, and somehow I think a bow might’ve taken away from it. He doesn’t explain what it is—not that he needs to. The way he offers it to me, slow and silent, makes my breath catch.
I take it carefully. It’s warm from his hand, and heavier than I expected. Not in weight exactly, but perhaps in intention. I can feel it before I even lift the lid. This isn’t a placeholder. This isn’t a maybe. Whatever it is, it’s real. It matters.
When I open it, I stop breathing altogether.
It’s a ring. Silver. The band is twisted like a stem, coiled in a way that feels organic, deliberate, wild. It’s not smooth, not perfectly symmetrical. It doesn’t want to be—nor should it be. At the top, a small cluster of stones blooms into a bouquet—pale pink and watery green, soft lavender and sky blue, each one catching the light in a different way, like no two were ever meant to reflect the same truth. A fragile little arrangement forged in metal and light and something unspeakably tender.
My voice comes out quieter than I mean it to. “It’s the one I saw at the market,” I say. “It was in the glass case by the cider stand, tucked between the antique lockets and the compass rings. I thought it was beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
He doesn’t give any kind of confirmation, but I know it’s exactly what it is.
“You went back for it.”
Still nothing. No words. But his silence is full. Weighted. Like he’s letting me see something most people never get from him. Maybe not even on purpose.
I slip the ring onto my middle finger, and it fits so perfectly I feel it click into place—not just on my hand, but inside me. Like my hand had been waiting for it, and it had been waiting to be worn. Like it always knew I would be the one to hold it.
“It doesn’t look like any flower I’ve ever seen,” I murmur, watching the stones catch the tree lights, a dozen colors flaring and fading like candle smoke. “But I think that’s why I love it. It doesn’t have to be like all the other flowers. It just is. It blooms anyway. Exactly how it’s meant to.”
When I look up, Dominic is watching me the way he sometimes does—like I’m an equation he’s already solved but still double-checking just in case the answer changes.
I smile. Not shyly. Not nervously. But fully. The kind of smile you give when you know, without question, that this moment is going to stay with you forever.
“This is the best Christmas I’ve ever had, Dominic, at least as far as I can remember,” I say, voice full of something that feels like light and gravity all at once.
And I don’t care if it’s late, or strange, or entirely ours. It’s perfect. Because he gave it to me.
I twirl the ring around my finger once—just once… okay maybe twice—and then look at him.
“What’s your favorite Christmas memory?”
Dominic doesn’t answer right away. He leans back against the couch, eyes distant, like he’s watching something from the past I can’t see. The silence doesn’t feel awkward. It feels… heavy. Full. Complete.
Finally, he speaks. Voice low. Flat. Not cold—but measured, like every word has been sifted for what hurts too much to say.
“Every Christmas Eve, we’d drive around and look at lights. Me in the back seat, music on low, my mom talking too fast about every inflatable decoration we passed. My dad would pretend to hate it, but he never once said no.”
I smile at the image.
“And Christmas Day?”
“We stayed in pajamas all day. No plans. No calls. Just us. ”
His voice softens, like the edges of the memory round out when he says that.
“My parents always got us a family gift. Something we had to work on together. One time it was a telescope and we spent the whole year watching the stars and planets move. Another year, a robot kit. My mom liked puzzles—the big, stupid ones with thousands of tiny pieces. We’d start it that morning and try to finish before dinner.”
“That sounds…” I pause. “Really peaceful.”
“It was.” He doesn’t say anything for a beat. “They died when I was eleven.”
I nod gently. Not surprised, but gutted all the same. I’ve always felt we were kindred souls.
“I’m so sorry, Dominic.”
He doesn’t acknowledge it. Not with words. But something flickers across his face—a shift, a retreat. He doesn’t want pity. Just the space to remember.
I reach over, not to touch him, but to close the distance with my voice. “And after your parents? Were there any more good Christmases?”
His fingers twitch once on his thigh.
“There was one more. When I was thirteen.”
I shift slightly, folding my legs beneath me, giving him all the space he needs without moving away.
“I went into foster care after my parents, and wound up in a group home by then. Not the worst place to land, but it wasn’t safe either. The kind of place where everyone learns fast to keep their head down. Stay invisible. Don’t get attached.”
He glances at me, just briefly. Like he knows how that will break my heart.
“But she didn’t care. We both showed up on the same day, and she marched right up to me and said, ‘I think you’re mine now.’”
“How old was she?” I ask with a smile. Children are my favorite. I love listening to them talk, they’re always so carefree and honest.
“Five. Tiny. Loud. Brave in a way that didn’t make any sense.”
“You gave her a nickname,” I guess.
He nods. “Mighty Mouse.”
“Because she was small?”
“Because she was quiet when she needed to be. Quick. She slipped past people when they weren’t paying attention. But she never hid from me and she never backed down.”
There’s something in his voice now—rougher. Like he’s trying to keep the shape of her whole while talking around everything that tried to break her.
“She used to sit next to me at meals. Would sneak extra fruit cups into my bag like she thought I’d starve without her. She kicked a fifteen-year-old in the shin because he took my jacket off the hook. He never tried it again. Not because of the kick but because of the broken nose I gave him when he tossed her to the ground.”
“She sounds amazing,” I say softly.
“She was.”
I let the silence stretch just enough before I ask the next question. “Did you ever get in trouble for protecting her?”
He shrugs. “They didn’t know how to handle a kid like me to begin with. And she made it clear we were a package deal. Even the adults started calling her my shadow. She was my little sister in all the ways that mattered. The only family I had in the world.”
A breath leaves him, half a laugh. But there’s no joy in it.
“A couple of years later Christmas came, and it snowed hard—like the kind that makes the world stop and everything quiet. She’d never seen snow before. We spent the whole afternoon outside, trying to build a snowman with no gloves and one carrot that became a stub nose because she kept eating it.”
My heart twists.
“She made me name him Gerald. Said he needed a job and a backstory. The whole time, she was shivering, teeth chattering—but laughing and squealing like it was the most magical day of her life. I couldn’t feel my hands, but I didn’t care. Not even a little.”
I don’t speak. I’m afraid if I do, I’ll ruin the weight of that memory.
“When she turned nine and I was fifteen, she got adopted. Quiet little placement, early morning. No goodbye. Just—gone.”
“Did you try to find her?”
“I’ve been trying for years ever since I had the means.”
He sits forward, arms on his knees now, his tone shifting from nostalgic to coldly precise.
“I tracked the placement. Found the adoption file. It said she died the same day.”
My breath catches. “What?”
“No autopsy. No obituary. Just one line in a system that didn’t make sense. Like someone erased her. I didn’t buy it. I still don’t.”
I watch him, my heart thudding .
“So what did you do?”
“Wrote a program. Facial recognition. Crawlers. Pings for the features she would likely have now. Even her name, although it was erased that day. Anything I could think of. It’s been running for over a decade.”
“And nothing?”
He shakes his head.
“Not one match.”
“I’ll help you look,” I say before I can think better of it. “You shouldn’t have to do this alone.”
He blinks like I surprised him.
“I mean it,” I say, sitting up straighter. “Even if it leads nowhere. Even if she’s—” I stop myself. “Even if the records are right. I’ll help you. I want to.”
He doesn’t thank me with words but leans forward and gives me the most painfully sweet kiss I’ve ever felt.
The silence between us lingers, but it’s warm. Not the kind that begs to be broken—the kind that lets you breathe deeper. The kind that feels safe.
And maybe that’s why I say it.
“My favorite Christmas—” I laugh a little. “Well…I don’t really remember much. Not the exact details. It’s all kind of blurry around the edges.”
I glance down at the ring again, twisting it gently, like it might help unlock the shape of something old.
“But I remember how it felt. The warmth. The quiet presence of love. My mother’s voice somewhere behind me, humming a song I didn’t know the words to. I think she was making pancakes. They might’ve been green ones—shaped like trees—I think. I remember cinnamon and powdered sugar, and laughing so hard my stomach hurt. ”
The memory feels like cotton—soft, comforting, a little worn out. But it’s the only one I have that doesn’t feel like it was borrowed from someone else.
“She was beautiful,” I whisper. “I remember thinking she was magic that morning. Not the kind you read about. But the kind all children believe in.”
Dominic says nothing. Doesn’t move. But I feel his eyes watching me and I know he’s listening.
“She died of cancer that year,” I say, matter-of-fact. “I was six. It was quiet. Peaceful, I think. I don’t remember that part very well—none of it really. I just remember… after. The silence. The way the house changed shape without her in it.”
My smile falters, but it doesn’t fall. I won’t let myself be sad at her memory. She deserves nothing but happiness from me.
“Daddy tried, but he’s never been good at holidays. He works too much. Forgets things. Most years he didn’t even realize it was Christmas or a birthday unless I left him a note.”
I shrug, brushing a fingertip over the ring again.
“But I didn’t mind. I still don’t. I love giving gifts. It’s how I let people know they matter. Even if I don’t get any in return, it’s more about the joy on someone else’s face that makes me feel like I’m—well… anyway—” I cut myself off with a soft voice and wipe away a tear that managed to sneak its way down my cheek.
“That memory with my mom? I think about it every year. Even if I don’t remember the exact shape of it, I know how it felt—how I felt. Safe. Loved. Like everything might be okay, even if it didn’t last.”
I look at him again, smiling fully now .
“And tonight feels a lot like that. Which means I’ll remember this one too.”
I glance at him, and something shifts in his expression. It’s subtle, but enough to still the air between us.
His voice is quiet. Careful.
“So you don’t remember your mother’s death?”
I blink at the question. Not because it’s cruel—it isn’t—but because I’ve never thought to ask myself that.
“No,” I admit. “Not really.”
I can’t help it when I look down at my hands again, at the ring still glinting soft silver on my finger. The colors catch the lights from the tree like stained glass.
“I think I just think I do. I remember what Daddy told me. Things like the scarf she wore when she got tired. How hard it got when she got worse. And then… she wasn’t there anymore. That I do remember.”
I smile like it might chase away the hurt.
“He said it happened at night. Quietly. That she didn’t feel a thing.”
When I glance up, Dominic’s eyes are fixed on me.
There’s no pity, or annoyance. It’s just… still, observant.
Like something in him recognizes something in me. Our losses, while different, are somehow shared.
And then he says, almost absently—but with weight?—
“Death. It follows you. Clings to you and refuses to let go.”
He holds my gaze too long. I don’t mind.
“It’s probably for the best, having no memory of it.”
I believe him.
Because if I never truly saw the end?—
then maybe, in some small, secret way…
she’s still singing.