Chapter 17 Simone
Chapter seventeen
Simone
Istepped into the snow-filled morning with no destination in mind.
No café to open. No customers to please.
No schedule to maintain. The lack of purpose felt like a physical absence, a weight lifted that left me strangely unbalanced.
I stood on the sidewalk outside Krampus's building, breath clouding in the winter air, and realized I could go anywhere.
Do anything. For the first time in longer than I could remember, no one was waiting for me to solve their problems or brighten their day.
The freedom was as terrifying as it was exhilarating.
My coat was already dusted with white, like someone had sifted powdered sugar across my shoulders.
I pulled it tighter around me and began walking, letting my feet choose the direction.
The magical district looked different in the morning light.
Without the urgent press of errands or the anxiety of yesterday's unexpected shopping trip, I could actually see the wonder of it.
Cobblestone streets wound between buildings that defied ordinary architecture, some leaning at impossible angles, others with windows that showed scenes from distant realms, a few that seemed to shift slightly when viewed from the corner of my eye.
At a corner stall, a trio of gnomes argued over wreath prices, their beards jiggling with the intensity of their haggling. The shortest one, barely reaching my knee, pounded his fist on the counter.
"Twelve gold for this? It's highway robbery! The holly doesn't even sing!"
The vendor, a gnome with spectacles perched on a bulbous nose, huffed indignantly. "Singing holly is fifteen minimum! This is premium silent holly with enchanted berries that never fall off! Ten gold, final offer."
The third gnome tugged his companions' sleeves. "The berries repel nargles, Gorbin. Worth every coin."
I slowed to watch them, realizing I'd never actually observed a full gnome negotiation despite serving dozens at the café each week.
Their ritualized haggling had its own rhythm, its own rules.
The shortest one eventually produced a velvet pouch, counting out odd-shaped coins that clinked musically as they hit the counter.
The vendor wrapped their purchase in shimmering paper that folded itself into perfect creases, and all three parted with elaborate bows, satisfaction evident in their waddle.
Outside a bookshop with windows frosted at the edges, a small blue creature worked with deep concentration.
Its spindly fingers traced intricate patterns across the glass, leaving crystalline designs that sparkled in the morning light.
A frost sprite, I'd served them iced coffees in summer, but never stopped to watch one create.
Each stroke produced elaborate fractals that grew and connected into a scene of winter mountains and forests.
The sprite's tongue poked out from between pointed teeth as it added minute details, tiny animals hidden among trees, stars with distinct constellations, clouds shaped like fanciful creatures.
When it noticed me watching, the sprite paused, tilting its head in curiosity.
Then, it added a final flourish, a small café with smoke curling from its chimney, nestled at the base of a mountain.
My café, rendered in frost. The sprite bowed before darting away, leaving me staring at the unexpected gift.
I continued my wandering, following a narrow street that curved between taller buildings.
The scent hit me before I saw the source, cinnamon so rich and complex it made the café's spice blend seem like a pale imitation.
I found myself standing outside a tiny bakery, its windows steamed from inside heat, a sign in curling script advertising "Enchanted Morning Treats—Memories Included. "
Through the foggy glass, I glimpsed bakers working with dough that glowed faintly as they shaped it.
One creation pulsed with golden light, and when the baker bit into it a small sample to test the texture, his eyes closed in momentary bliss, his expression suggesting he was experiencing something far beyond mere flavor.
Memory-infused pastries, I'd heard of them but never indulged.
They were expensive and required magical ingredients that didn't exactly fit the café's homey menu.
For a moment, I considered going inside, buying something just for me.
A treat with no purpose beyond my own pleasure.
The thought was so foreign I almost laughed aloud.
The sound of singing drew my attention away from the bakery.
Down a side street decorated with evergreen boughs, a small gathering of fae children had formed a circle, their voices rising in harmony.
The carol wasn't one I recognized, the melody shifted keys in ways human music rarely attempted, and the language was certainly not English.
But the sentiment needed no translation.
Joy. Connection. Celebration of light in darkness.
I stopped completely, letting the otherworldly music wash over me.
The children's wings, gossamer things in shades of amber, emerald, and sapphire, fluttered in time with their singing.
Their faces, with features too sharp and beautiful to be human, were transformed by simple happiness.
They sang not for an audience or for payment, but because the music itself was something that connected them.
When was the last time I'd done anything purely for its own sake? Just... because it brought me joy?
I couldn't remember.
I stood in gently falling snow, listening to inhuman voices create beauty simply because they could, and felt let myself relax and simply enjoy the moment.
The park appeared before me like something from a dream, or more accurately, like something from a holiday card too perfect to exist in reality.
Massive trees with trunks wider than café tables stood around a frozen pond, their branches draped in snow and strung with lights that seemed to float among the limbs rather than being attached to them.
The ice below glowed with subtle magic, throwing prisms of color across the white landscape whenever skaters' blades cut across its surface.
I'd passed this place a hundred times on my way to work, but had never actually walked through its wrought-iron gates or sat on one of its benches that somehow remained warm despite the snow.
I brushed off a light dusting of powder from one such bench and sat, feeling warmth rise immediately through my coat.
Not hot, just comfortable, as if the bench had been waiting in the sun rather than a snowstorm.
Around the pond, children played with the abandonment that transcended species, werewolf cubs in colorful mittens chasing each other across the ice, tiny fae with wings dusted in protective frost attempting spins, a young centaur cautiously testing his hooves on the slippery surface while his father watched proudly.
Their laughter carried across the park, a melody backed by the soft percussion of skate blades cutting ice.
No one hurried. No one checked their phones or watches.
They simply existed in the joy of the moment, something I'd forgotten how to do so long ago that watching it felt like witnessing a foreign ritual.
Near the pond's edge, a frost sprite, perhaps the same one I'd seen creating window art earlier, hovered just above the surface while instructing a small bog witch.
The witch couldn't have been more than seven, her green-tinged skin standing out against a purple coat, her tiny legs wobbling as she attempted to remain upright on borrowed skates.
"Arms out like branches," the sprite demonstrated, its own limbs extended gracefully. "Feet like roots, seeking earth through ice."
The little witch mimicked the posture, her face scrunched in concentration.
When she managed three gliding steps without falling, her face split into a grin of such pure triumph that I felt an answering smile tug at my own lips.
The sprite clapped spindly hands together, leaving small puffs of frozen mist with each impact.
"See? Already dancing with winter," it praised. "Again!"
I watched them, the patient teacher, the determined student, and felt something crack inside me. A hairline fracture in the careful walls I'd built around my heart.
My family had never been like this. Had never provided the safe harbor that these parents created for their children.
My father, with his perpetual disappointment and eventual abandonment.
My mother, present in body but absent in every way that mattered, retreating into bottles rather than facing the wreckage of our family.
There had been no patient teaching, no celebration of small victories, no hands steady on my back as I learned to navigate uncertain ground.
I'd taught myself everything, how to cook meals that wouldn't make me sick, how to forge a parent's signature on school forms, how to smile so convincingly that teachers stopped asking uncomfortable questions.
I'd become an expert at self-sufficiency before I was old enough to drive.
And now, outside the small community I'd built at the café, I had no one. No family holiday gatherings to attend. No childhood friends who checked in regularly. No romantic partner waiting at home. Just empty rooms and systems designed to keep me too busy to notice the absence of connection.
Silas and Bramble knew pieces of me. Regular customers recognized my face and remembered my name.
But no one, at least until Krampus, had seen through me and tried to ease my burden.
And I had pushed him away. The moment he'd asked for more I'd fled.
Because wanting too much, needing too deeply, meant risking loss again.
And loss, as I'd learned too young, could hollow you out until nothing remained but a shell going through the motions of living.
I closed my eyes and let myself feel everything I'd been running from, the bone-deep loneliness, the exhaustion of constant performance, and fear that without my usefulness I had no value.
My body released years of tension in small increments.
First my shoulders dropped from their defensive hunch.
Then my spine softened against the bench.
Finally, my hands unclenching to rest open on my thighs, palms up like I was waiting to receive something I'd denied myself for too long.
I'd been on my own for so long that I'd forgotten a fundamental truth: surviving wasn't the same as living.
I'd kept myself alive, kept the café running, kept smiles on customers' faces.
But I'd denied myself the messy, wonderful fullness of actually being alive, with all its risks and vulnerabilities and possibilities.
The realization washed over me like a wave, leaving clarity in its wake.
I deserved more than mere survival. Deserved to be cared for, not just to care for others.
Deserved to be loved, not just to give love away until I was empty.
And I wasn't alone, not really. Silas, with his prickly exterior and fiercely protective heart, loved me in his way.
Bramble, sharp-tongued and surprisingly wise, saw through me and stayed anyway.
The café regulars who brought me little gifts on my birthday or saved articles they thought might interest me, they cared too.
And Krampus... he had seen the darkest, most hidden parts of me and hadn't turned away. Hadn't tried to fix me or silence my pain or pretend it didn't exist. He'd simply acknowledged it, held space for it, and asked to be let in.
A sound escaped me then, something between a laugh and a sob.
Once I started, I couldn't stop. I laughed, truly and deeply, the sound carrying across the snow-covered park and drawing curious glances from nearby parents.
The laughter felt like something breaking open inside me, years of carefully contained emotions finally finding release.
When tears followed, hot against my cold cheeks, I didn't try to hide them or wipe them away. I let them fall, each one carrying away a small piece of the armor I'd wrapped around my heart for so long.
A family of foxes, actual foxes, not shapeshifters, darted across the frozen pond, their red coats vibrant against the white.
The children squealed in delight, momentarily abandoning their skating to watch the wild creatures.
Even magical beings could be captivated by ordinary wonders when they allowed themselves to truly see.
I stood, brushing snow from my coat, feeling lighter than I had in years.
Not because my pain had vanished, it hadn't, and perhaps never would completely, but because I'd finally acknowledged it as part of me rather than something to hide or deny.
My steps carried me back toward the wrought-iron gates, but I wasn't returning to my apartment.
I was going to the café, to the people who had become my chosen family, to the place where I was most myself.
And maybe, if I was brave enough, to the monster who had seen through every defense and still wanted me.
I wanted to see what our relationship could become. To discover who I might be when not defined solely by service to others. Finally experience the pleasure he offered so freely, without the guilt or fear that had always accompanied acceptance.
As I walked, snow crunching beneath my boots and holiday lights reflecting in puddles of melted ice, a thought crystallized with perfect clarity:
I deserved to be loved. And I wanted him. I wanted this. I wanted more.