Our little old Christmas tree sparkles—bright, patient, faithful. The evening surrounds me lwhile every bulb feels like a memory suspended in light tender and full.
Gabriel laid near the tree, holding one of the packages, marked with his name, above his head. He shakes it gently, as if the answer might rattle loose. I don’t stop him. This is part of the ritual. Curiosity before certainty. Wonder before knowing. I watch his face light up—not from the tree, but from the possibility—and I feel time fold in on itself.
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