Epilogue
Beau
Ten years later
Snow falls steady outside the cabin, soft flakes catching the golden light that spills from the windows.
Inside, the fire pops and hisses, filling the air with that familiar mix of pine smoke and sawdust. The scent of cinnamon cookies drifts from the kitchen—Faith’s doing, of course—and Christmas music hums low from the old radio.
“Easy there, bud,” I say, glancing over at the small workbench beside mine. “Let the sandpaper glide with the grain. Don’t fight it.”
Eli looks up, his face smudged with sawdust and pure determination. “Like this?”
“Exactly like that.”
He grins, missing one front tooth and proud as can be. “It’s gonna be perfect.”
“Looks that way,” I tell him, leaning closer to inspect his work.
He’s sanding the wings of a wooden airplane, tongue poking out in concentration, the same way Faith does when she’s frosting cookies.
His small hands are steady, careful—mine used to be that size when my dad first handed me a carving knife.
“Mom says you used to work all by yourself up here,” he says without looking up.
“Sure did.”
He frowns thoughtfully. “Wasn’t it lonely?”
“Yeah,” I admit. “But then a very bossy lady in a red hat showed up and ruined all that.”
From the kitchen, Faith calls, “I heard that!”
Eli giggles. “Mom says you were grumpy.”
“She’s not wrong.” I glance toward the doorway, catching sight of her there—flour on her cheek, curls falling loose from her braid, wearing my old flannel over her leggings. Ten years later and she still looks like every reason I ever started believing in Christmas again.
She smirks, hands on her hips. “And don’t you forget it, Lawson. Cocoa’s ready.”
“Five more minutes,” Eli pleads. “We’re almost done!”
Faith shakes her head but smiles. “All right, five minutes. Then wash up. You’ve both got sawdust in your hair.”
“Not me,” Eli insists, brushing a few curls from his forehead. Sawdust rains down like confetti.
I chuckle. “Sure thing, pal.”
When she disappears back into the kitchen, I nod toward the plane. “You think it’s ready?”
He runs a small hand over the wood, eyes going wide. “It feels happy.”
My throat tightens. “Then I’d say it’s perfect.”
He grins, wrapping a red ribbon around the body and tying it in a wobbly bow. “For the donation box?”
“Same as always.” I ruffle his hair. “A Lawson Christmas tradition.”
He beams up at me, gap-toothed and proud. “You think the kids who get them know you made ’em?”
“Doesn’t matter if they do,” I say softly. “What matters is they know someone cared enough to try.”
Faith’s laughter drifts from the other room, sweet, familiar, the sound of home. I set my tools aside and rest a hand on my boy’s shoulder, watching the snow gather thick outside the window.
“C’mon, let’s go drink some hot chocolate with your mom.”
We head toward the warmth and light of the kitchen, the smell of sugar and cocoa wrapping around us like a promise. Faith looks up as we walk in, eyes soft and full, and in that moment the world feels exactly right.
The cabin used to be quiet.
Now it’s alive—with laughter, sawdust, and love carved deep into every corner.