CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
The walk home is slow, and we don’t mind. It’s refreshing, really. The sun hangs low in the sky, casting long shadows over the quiet sidewalks. The chill bites at our fingers and noses, but neither of us rushes. It feels right to walk. To just be. To let the silence, stretch between us, not because there’s nothing left to say, but because we’ve already said the hardest things.
The town is beginning to dress itself in Christmas.
Wreaths are being hung on storefronts, and strings of white lights zigzag across the streetlamps like glowing ribbons. There’s a tree going up in the town square half-decorated, its ornaments still sitting in boxes beside a ladder. Kids pass us in scarves and oversized coats, laughing as they toss handfuls of snow into the air.
“It’s strange
