Chapter 2 #2
"That's..." Alex paused. "Actually kind of beautiful. Even if it's only a story."
"Is it?" I asked quietly. "You held my hand last night, and the streetlights glowed brighter. You walked into this theater, and every light turned on to welcome you. The valley brought you home, Alex. Maybe it's not just a story."
He looked away, but not before I saw fear flash across his face. "I'm not staying." The words came out fierce, defensive. "This is—"
"Observing. I know." My voice carried a gentle tone. "No pressure."
Alex spoke again—his tone raw and honest. "I can't— I've already failed at everything I built. My career and my grandmother's expectations. I can't fail at this, too."
"This?"
"You." He said it so softly that I almost missed it. "Whatever this is between us. I can't start something I'm going to ruin."
"What if you don't ruin it?" I asked. "What if the only thing you're failing at is giving yourself permission to be imperfect?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he spotted a partially disassembled ornate music box. "What's this?"
"Local family heirloom." I carefully lifted the intricate mechanism, glad for something to do with my hands. "Their grandmother wound it every Christmas Eve to play 'Silent Night.' The timing gear stripped after so many years, but I fabricated a replacement from period-correct brass."
"May I?" When I nodded, Alex handled the piece with careful precision.
He traced the delicate gears with his thumb. "We had something similar. Before my mom died." The practiced charm fell away completely. "She'd wind it up Christmas morning, and we'd listen to it while opening presents. After she was gone, Dad sold it. Said it hurt too much to hear it."
"I'm sorry." My words were inadequate. "I lost my parents ten years ago. Car accident."
He gazed into my eyes, and we stood there in shared understanding. His fingers brushed mine as he started to hand the music box back. The mechanism began to play.
Both of us froze.
"Silent Night" filled the workshop, tinny and sweet, even though we hadn't wound the music box.
"How..." Alex whispered.
I carefully took the mechanism from him, and it stopped. I handed it back, and when his skin touched mine again, the music resumed.
"It's us," I said quietly. "Together. The valley's trying to tell us something."
"That's not—" He didn't let go. Neither did I. We stood there, hands joined around an impossible music box playing an impossible song, and I watched his defenses crumble.
"What is this place?" His voice cracked. "What's happening?"
"Magic. Healing. Second chances." I moved closer. "The Twelve Nights, when the veil between hope and reality is thin. The valley knows what you need, Alex. What we both need."
The music swelled, and tools on the workbench began to hum in harmony—saw blades resonating, hammers vibrating gently, and wood singing. The Christmas lights strung across the rafters started to pulse in time with the melody.
"I failed," Alex said suddenly. "I had a panic attack on stage in front of fifty people. I couldn't breathe, couldn't sing, couldn't—" His voice broke. "I'm not the person who left this town. I'm not golden anymore. I'm just..."
"Human?" I finished gently. "That's allowed. Actually, it's required."
A laugh broke through his tears. "You sound like Holly."
"Holly's usually right." I squeezed his hand. "And she's right about you. You're not as confident as you seem."
"Observant." He wiped his eyes with his free hand, but didn't let go of mine. "Is that a Blitzen family trait, or just you?"
"Just me. Well, me and the valley. We're both paying attention."
The music box wound down slowly, the final notes of "Silent Night" fading into silence.
"I don't know how to do this," Alex admitted. "Any of this. The show, this—" He gestured between us. "Whatever this is."
"Then we'll figure it out together." I lifted our joined hands. "One impossible thing at a time."
The stage door banged open, and voices echoed through the theater. Cast members arrived for the morning run-through. Alex automatically tried to step back and put distance between us, but I held on.
"It's okay," I said. "Everybody knows about me. And nobody cares. The valley protects its own."
"Ben!" Holly's voice carried from the stage.
"Is Alex here? We need—oh!" She appeared in the workshop doorway, took in our joined hands and matching red faces, and smiled like she'd won the lottery.
"Perfect. You're both here. Alex, we desperately need your eye on the blocking for 'Plastic Alligator. ' The crowd scene is a disaster."
"I'm only observing—" Alex started.
"Then observe from the stage," Holly said firmly. "Ben, bring the storefront pieces when you're ready. We need to see how they work with the choreography."
She swept out, leaving us standing in the workshop's golden light.
"No pressure?" Alex said dryly.
"She's terrifying when she's matchmaking." I finally, reluctantly, released his hand. "Or directing. Sometimes both."
"I noticed." He smiled, the genuine smile that made my chest ache. "I suppose I could take a look at the blocking. For the sake of observation."
I grinned. "I'll give it fifteen minutes before you're restructuring the entire number."
"I have self-control."
"You're already choreographing in your head. I can see it."
He laughed. "Okay, fine. Maybe I have opinions."
"Good." I grabbed my tool belt and the storefront pieces that were ready. "The theater could use someone with opinions. Someone who knows what they're doing."
Alex paused in the wings, looking out at the stage where cast members were gathering. I watched him straighten his shoulders and lift his chin—preparing to perform the role of professional, someone who had it all together.
Then he looked back at me, and his guard dropped again. "If I do this—if I help—I'm still not promising anything."
"I know."
"I might leave after Christmas."
"I know that too."
"Then why—"
"Because the valley brought you home for a reason," I said quietly. "And maybe that reason is the show. Or maybe it's healing. Or maybe—" I paused and took a breath. "Maybe it's both of us, finally finding what we didn't know we were looking for."
The stage lights flared bright, then settled into a warm, welcoming glow.
Alex shook his head. "You and Holly should start a poetry workshop."
"Rather stick to woodworking." I gestured toward the stage. "After you. Let's see what you've got, Broadway."
Holly clapped her hands. "Places, everyone! Alex Garland will observe our run-through of 'Plastic Alligator.' Alex, dear, feel free to share any observations that occur to you."
The cast members waved and called greetings. Alex waved back.
"All right," he said. "Let's see what you've got. Start from the top."
He held off exactly forty-three seconds before stopping them to fix a spacing issue. Three minutes before he was on stage demonstrating proper crowd flow. Five minutes before he'd reorganized the entire number.
I leaned against the proscenium arch, watching him work. Holly appeared beside me, watching with satisfaction. "Told you."
"You did."
"He's staying."
"Maybe."
"The valley knows what it wants," she said. "And Ben? So do you. Stop fighting it."
The music started up, and Alex led the cast through the revised blocking. It was better—organic but controlled, building momentum perfectly.
He ran the cast through "Plastic Alligator" for the third time. My hands moved on autopilot, mind only half-present, the other half listening to his voice carry across the theater—patient and encouraging.
"That's looking amazing."
I startled. Alex had crossed to the workshop without me noticing, still flushed from directing, eyes bright with the kind of joy I'd seen in him on stage fifteen years ago.
"Thanks. Just finishing the detail work on—"
"Ben."
His voice went quiet. He was staring at the scrollwork I'd been carving.
"Is that..."
I looked down, and my breath caught.
Carved into the ornate Victorian scrollwork, emerging from the pattern as if it had always been there, was a face.
Alex's face. The strong line of his jaw, the wave of his hair, and even that small scar above his eyebrow he'd gotten falling off a bike when he was twelve—a detail I remembered from the newspaper photo when he'd won the middle school talent show.
I hadn't meant to carve it and hadn't even been thinking about it consciously. Still, there it was.
"I didn't—" My heart hammered. "That wasn't intentional."
Alex traced the carving with one finger, and the wood warmed under his touch, glowing faintly gold. He looked up at me.
"The wood knows what it wants to become," he said softly, and I realized he'd been listening when I'd talked about my grandfather's philosophy earlier. "You said that. About finding what the wood wants and helping it get there."
"Yeah."
"So what does this mean?" His finger was still on the carved lines of his own face. "What does the wood want?"
You. To keep you. To make you permanent, carved into something that will last generations.
I shrugged, looking away. "I don't know."
Alex smiled, small and secret, and I knew he didn't believe me.
The theater lights pulsed once, and somewhere in the rafters, I swear I heard my grandfather's laugh.