She snorted. “‘Cause of death: holiday décor.’”

“‘Victim was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but was at least festively themed.’”

“Daniel,” Jenna said, voice dangerously calm, “we live in Florida.”

He looked at the wreath again. “…Right. So it might’ve been sand.”

That was his favorite part of the holidays—the way people found the book they needed by accident. Not the one they came in asking for, but the one that met them halfway.

“What’d you fly?”

“Oh, whatever needed flying.” He gave a small shrug, as if the details were unimportant. “Cargo. Rescue. The odd emergency route on Christmas Eve.”

“Christmas Eve?” the student holding the baby asked. “Like… weathering storms?”

“Like whatever came through the air that night,” he said, eyes glinting.

She held still, afraid the smallest movement would break whatever spell she’d stumbled into.

Her mother’s voice rose up in her mind, soft and warm and carrying the cinnamon scent of the kitchen from decades ago: Put your finger right there, sweetie. She could still feel her own small hand, steadying the ribbon the same way her daughter was doing now. She hadn’t thought about that moment in years—not really—but suddenly it was as clear as the afternoon it happened.

The transformer outside gave a low, uneasy hum, faltering just long enough to make her pause with the mixing bowl in her hands. Then the lights blinked once — sharp, warning — and everything went dark.

Her husband—“Santa” to the winking masses—sits in his study polishing spectacles, pretending not to hear. He hates this part. Always has. Kindness comes naturally to him. Old power does not.

One by one, they step into the starlit desert. Their glow grows brighter as they move away, pale lights bobbing like will-o’-wisps across the dunes. She watches until they’re only a constellation of tiny sparks at the edge of sight.