Good Spirits by B.K. Borison - 5

T here’s a crack on the bottom. See? It’s right there.”

I bite the inside of my cheek and feign interest as I examine the minuscule crack at the bottom edge of the music box I sold last week. This piece is one of my favorites. A gilded cage with a songbird in the middle, wrapped in flowering vines. I had been happy to sell it to someone who wanted to give it as a gift. I spent extra time on the packaging.

I used the good wrapping paper. I curled the ribbon.

Now there’s no ribbon. Or delicate gold paper. I imagine my hard work discarded in a trash bin somewhere and frustration licks at the inside of my chest. I let it have its moment, then take a deep breath and push the irritation somewhere else.

It’s just paper. Just ribbon. Easily replaceable.

The woman in lululemon leggings turns the music box on its side and jabs her finger repeatedly at a crack the size of a thumbtack.

“I can’t give my sister a broken music box for Christmas,” she says. “I can’t believe you even sell broken music boxes.”

“It’s not broken,” I explain. I turn the box carefully in my hand and twist the hinge at the bottom. The bird begins to spin and a lovely, tinkling melody spills out. “See? It plays music.”

The woman ignores the song, tipping it back on its side. It makes a dull thunk against the countertop and I clench my jaw so tight my teeth snap. She’s not being careful.

“But there’s a crack,” she says again.

“Yes, but—”

“There’s a crack,” she repeats, slowing down her words and enunciating each syllable like I didn’t hear her the first forty-seven times she said it. The frustration in my chest spreads to my cheeks, my face burning hot. The urge to apologize bubbles in the back of my throat, but I ignore it. She narrows her eyes. “A crack means it’s broken.”

A crack doesn’t mean it’s broken. A crack means it’s done exactly what it’s supposed to do for generations. A crack means hundreds of hands have held it … have listened to that little bird sing. A crack means it’s one of a kind. Different from anything else.

A crack means it’s special.

One tiny imperfection and this woman is ready to abandon it.

I pull the music box closer and push down on the parts of myself that want to argue. I’m tired today, and no amount of fancy coffee from the café across the street is reviving me. I had strange dreams last night. A handsome man in an old, faded flannel. A frown on his face and his hand outstretched toward mine.

That’s what I get for falling asleep in the glow of my Christmas tree after drinking half a box of expired peppermint tea. I woke up on the couch with my hair in my mouth, White Christmas somehow still playing on my television, no sign of the man who claimed to be a ghost.

I checked the locks on my windows just to be sure.

“What would you like me to do about the crack?” I ask. I know what I’d like to do. I’d like to press pause on this entire day and go back to bed. I feel like I’m two steps behind every conversation and annoyed because of it.

“Well, I’d like another music box,” she says, still talking to me like I’m stupid. “Without the crack.”

I frown. “I don’t have another music box. This is an antiques shop. Everything is unique.”

Unique and original and handpicked by me from online auctions and estate sales and Goodwill bargain hunts across the state, just like my aunt Matilda used to do. I spent my childhood running up and down the crowded aisles while my parents attended to business at the statehouse. It seemed magical back then. Necklaces and rings the size of my palm with shiny, colorful gems. Music boxes and plates with painted horses. Handwoven baskets and crystal glasses casting rainbows across the ceiling. Aunt Matilda used to say walking through the front door of the Crow’s Nest was like stepping into a treasure chest.

It still has that magic, but I’m having trouble feeling it this morning. I don’t like when people come in here and treat everything like it’s an amusing little novelty.

And I still haven’t had a chance to put my trees up.

The woman’s frown deepens. “You’re telling me you don’t have another music box like this? Not even one?”

That’s exactly what I’m saying. That’s exactly what I’ve been saying. “We have music boxes. Different music boxes,” I say, settling on brevity. “Not one exactly like this, but something just as special. Would you like to look at the rest of our selection? I’m sure we have something—”

“I want this one.” She taps the top of the gilded cage. “The bird one. My sister is an avid bird watcher. She loves sparrows.”

I stare at her. The bird in the cage is not a sparrow. It’s a dove. “Would you … would you like me to rewrap it for you?”

“No, I’d like the same one without the damage to the base. I can’t believe how many times I’ve had to explain this to you.”

Around and around we go. I wonder if this woman is related to the man who wanted the unassembled nightstands.

“How about I give you a refund instead?” It’s always been easier for me to take the hit than fight the fight, and this fight is hardly worth it. I lift the music box. I’d rather keep it with me anyway. “And then I can direct you to a shop two blocks over that you might have better luck with.”

It only takes me a few moments to issue the refund and then the woman is sweeping back through the front door, oversize glasses perched on the end of her upturned nose. I twist the knob on the bottom of the music box and listen to the first few warbly notes as the door shuts behind her.

“You’re not broken, are you? Just a little bruised.” I trace the tiny crack along the bottom. “That’s okay. It’s her loss.”

I set the music box down and close my eyes, digging my knuckles into the middle of my chest. There’s an ache there I can’t quite chase away, no matter how much I try.

Maybe that weird dream last night was some sort of prophecy. A mirror held up to my consciousness. Maybe I have made bad choices. Maybe I am a bad person.

“Well, she sucked.” Sasha, my store manager, emerges from the shelves like a wisp of smoke. I jump slightly and she gives me a narrow-eyed look. “What’s got you so twitchy?”

“You mean, besides your lurking?”

Sasha shrugs.

“Nothing.” I push my hair away from my face. “Weird dreams. Expired tea.” A man who says he’s a ghost sent to haunt me as retribution for being a terrible person.

She gives me a considering look as she shuffles behind the counter to her rightful place. The place I left her twenty-five minutes ago so I could finally put up my trees. The place she certainly wasn’t at when lululemon came through the door.

“We can add her to the banned list,” Sasha says.

“We don’t have a banned list,” I tell her, watching as she taps away at the ancient cash register. Her nails are topped with chipped black polish, a number of mismatched rings decorating her fingers. Her strawberry blond hair glows pink against the black of her sweater, the muted light from the stained glass lamp above us making her sparkle. For someone who looks like she belongs on the top of a cupcake, she’s never had any trouble holding her boundaries.

I want to be her when I grow up.

“We also have a no return policy,” she says, singsonging the words. “But that’s never stopped you from giving in.”

I ignore her. The state of the return policy is not something we agree on, nor is the banned list. Sasha and I have sort of a good cop/ bad cop routine. I give in to every customer demand and Sasha stares blankly without responding whenever she’s annoyed.

“Where did you go?” I ask. “I thought I left you behind the counter.”

She pushes her glasses up her nose. “I could smell the Victoria’s Secret Love Spell when she opened the door. I was needed in inventory.”

“Who needed you in inventory?” We’re the only two people in the store.

“I needed me in inventory.”

I snort. “You mean you needed to sit on the beanbag in the back corner of the inventory room that you think I don’t know about and catch up on your reading while I handled the difficult customer.”

A small, pleased smile curls the edges of her mouth. “Poh-tay-to, Poh-tah-to.”

She jabs another button and a receipt slowly starts chugging out from the top of the register. We really need an upgrade, but every time I hear the squeaky bell that accompanies the change drawer being ejected, I swear I can hear Aunt Matilda cursing under her breath. Missing her still feels like a heavy stone in the middle of my chest. I’m too sentimental to part with anything that makes me think of her.

The register lets out another beleaguered groan. I wince. “Can you fulfill the order for the staging company today?”

Sasha nods, her dark eyes already scanning the report. “Yep. I’m loading pallets in the back. Everything should be ready to go for the truck this evening.”

“Excellent. Thank you.” I might let customers walk all over me, but that same positive energy has helped me secure a number of contracts with local partners that have scraped us out of a decade of debt. For the first time in a long time, the Crow’s Nest is operating with a profit. Sasha rips off the receipt that’s dangling limply above the floor and folds it into three neat squares. “The girlies love an aesthetic moment.”

“And we love them for it.” I bump my hip into hers. “Don’t act like you haven’t been hoarding the bronze candlestick holders.”

Sasha snickers. “Guilty.” She reaches under the counter for a clipboard and a small bag of trail mix she must have hidden at some point last week. “All right. I’m going to be in the back. Shout if you need me.”

I watch her weave through the shelves. “Will you come if I do?”

“Debatable,” she responds, breaking the word into multiple syllables so she can sing it. She slows to a stop near an ornate, evergreen wardrobe. I can see only the very top of her berry-pink hair.

“Remember to stand your ground!” she shouts. “Stop giving people refunds and stop letting them steamroll you!”

I pick up the music box again.

“I’ll do my best.”

I don’t intend to follow through. People have always pointed to my subdued nature as a weakness. Every time I had to participate in a debate at law school, I’d get the same feedback. Too timid. Gives in to external pressure. Hesitation lessens the impact of argument. Everyone expected more from the youngest York, a sentiment that has more or less followed me for the duration of my life. I’ve always been better on paper.

But there’s strength in picking your battles. I’m good at reading a room and setting my expectations accordingly. It’s a skill I perfected while growing up in a cold house with cold parents. Sometimes it’s best to make yourself as small as possible so you can go unnoticed.

Even if going unnoticed breaks your heart.

“I can’t imagine she was talking about you,” a familiar voice drawls from the other side of the countertop. “Stand your ground?” He clicks his tongue. “I didn’t think that was something you had trouble with.” My head shoots up so fast my neck cricks in protest. It’s the so-called ghost man from my peppermint-drunk-concussion-addled dreams. He’s standing on the other side of my register, a cup of coffee in each hand.

Last night, I couldn’t make out his features, but I can see the details now.

Midnight blue eyes. Thick eyelashes. A nose that’s slightly crooked, like it’s been broken a time or two. Full lips that tug up slightly on one side. A thin white scar above his left eyebrow.

If he’s a ghost, he’s a handsome one.

“You,” I whisper.

“Me,” he says. Amusement makes the lines by his eyes deepen.

Two dimples wink to life in the scruff of his beard.

Fuck , my brain whispers.

He drops a coffee cup in front of me and braces one arm against the countertop. “Hello again, Harriet.”

The thermal he’s wearing is dark green and well-loved. There’s a small tear at the base of his neck. I study it instead of meeting his eyes. His throat strains with a swallow.

“I thought you were a figment of my imagination,” I whisper.

He grins in response and the dimples deepen, two divots in his cheeks.

Or the subject of a particularly indecent dream. He looks like the type of man from those old-school romance covers. The ones my aunt Matilda used to keep in a haphazard stack on her nightstand. He’s strong. Rough around the edges.

The dimples are an unfair—and frankly unnecessary—addition. “Nope.” He pops the end of the word, then nudges the coffee cup closer to me. “Here. I brought you this.”

“Did I fall down the steps again? Did I drink NyQuil?” Once I accidentally had too much cold medicine and thought there were dancing gophers on my windowsill. I tried to call an exterminator. I’m sure that voicemail lives on in infamy. They probably play it during their new employee orientation. “Am I in a coma?” I ask in a whisper. “No. You’re not in a coma.” He glances at the beautiful stained glass lantern hanging between us. Aunt Matilda got it at an estate sale in Baltimore and then went on a bender, picking up about sixteen more. They hang throughout the store at various, haphazard heights. “Though these lights are pretty low. It’s entirely possible you smacked your head on one.”

“Am I asleep?” I pinch the inside of my wrist again. “Did I take a hallucinogenic?”

“You’re conscious and unharmed.” He frowns at the red mark left on the inside of my wrist, then plucks the cup from the counter and dangles it in front of my face. “Drink your coffee.”

I frown at the cardboard cup, suspicious.

“It’s peppermint mocha, not arsenic.” He wiggles it back and forth. “Drink it.”

“I’m not sure I should take strange drinks from strange men.”

He drops the cup back to the counter. He swaps it with his. “Take mine then.”

“You drink coffee?”

He brings the peppermint mocha to his lips and takes a sip. His shoulders push up to his ears as he swallows with obvious difficulty. “I’d hardly categorize this as coffee.”

“But you said … you’re a ghost?”

Blue eyes slant to mine. “I am. Nice to see you do indeed remember our conversation.”

“Ghosts drink coffee?”

One of his dark eyebrows jumps up. “That’s what you’re choosing to fixate on?”

I nod. It’s either that or reevaluate everything I’ve ever known. I’m not sure I have the mental capacity to wrestle with the universe right now.

He scrubs his hand against the back of his head, then drags his palm down the line of his jaw. I can hear the way his scruff scrapes against his skin. It’s a middle-of-the-night sound, paired best with rustling sheets and bedroom whispers. Wind at the windows and hands tracing over sleep-warm skin.

I pinch the inside of my wrist so hard I suck in air through my teeth.

This is what happens when I don’t get proper sleep. My brain starts wandering down alleyways it has no business traveling. I start thinking inappropriately about ghosts .

“I drink coffee. I eat food,” my ghost says slowly, oblivious to my mental deterioration. “I sleep in a bed and I have a rather torrid love affair with Hot Tamales. I don’t need to do any of those things to exist as a spirit, but old habits are hard to break.”

“Habits from … when you were a human?”

“Yes.”

“Because you’re a ghost.”

“Yes,” he says again, more than a little exasperated. “Because I’m a ghost.”

“Hmm.”

His eyes narrow. “You told me you’d believe me if I came back.”

“Yes, well, I also thought you were an imaginary person. Dream bargains don’t count.”

“It wasn’t a dream.”

“Apparently not.” After a moment of hesitation, I reach for the coffee cup he’s not holding and take a sip. It’s a dark roast from Paula’s without any of the fun stuff. It tastes awful.

“Would you like your peppermint mocha back?” he asks, voice laced with more smug amusement than any man—living or dead— should possess.

“Ugh, yes please.” I practically throw his cup at him, reaching for the other with two hands. I guzzle at it like a greedy little goblin. It’s the perfect balance of sweet and rich, chocolate and peppermint exploding on my tongue.

He props himself up on his elbows, leaning up against my counter. He’s one long curve, his sleeves pushed up over his forearms. His hands are covered with scars. Thin white ones that overlap his knuckles.

“Better?” he asks.

“This coffee is much better, thank you.” My life, on the other hand, continues to spiral.

“Excellent. Shall we discuss the rest of this now?”

“Bold of you to assume I have any idea what this is,” I say under my breath. Summoning my courage and suppressing the ten thousand questions ping-ponging around in my head, I shake my hair behind my shoulders, a stubborn strand or two caught in the collar of my sweater. I try to corral it with my hands, struggling to contain the entirety of it.

It’s particularly out of control today, the dry, winter air infusing it with static. Some days I try to shove it under a beanie or subdue it with a braid, but I was too tired after a restless night to do much of anything with it. Now it’s letting its displeasure be known, probably rising above my head like a sea creature. I bet I look like Medusa.

I drop it with a sigh. There are bigger things to deal with than the state of my hair. Like the self-proclaimed ghost standing in front of me and his so-called soul-reckoning. I study him. There’s nothing out of the ordinary about him.

“Sasha is here,” I tell him abruptly.

He drags his eyes with obvious reluctance from my hair to my face. “Who?”

“My store manager. She’s here. If she comes out, she’s going to see me talking to no one and probably check me into one of those special spa clinics.”

He hides his smile behind the lid of his motor oil disguised as coffee. “People can see me, Harriet.”

“They can?”

He nods. “They see, but they don’t remember. Ghosts skirt around the edges of your consciousness.”

“Yeah, right.” I snort. It bursts right out of me without permission or thought.

His blue eyes turn sharp, curiosity burning cobalt. “What is that supposed to mean?”

I gesture at his overall person while my cheeks burn hot. The scruff. The jaw. The hair. The … forearms. The almost-mustache. Didn’t think that would do it for me, yet here we are. “You’re telling me people don’t notice you?”

A smile hooks the corner of his mouth. It’s almost as devastating as the dimples. “Flirting won’t win you any favors, Harriet.”

“I’m not flirting,” I tell the top of my coffee cup.

His eyes crinkle at the corners.

“I’m not.”

“Aye, all right.” He laughs. He takes another long sip from his coffee, then scratches at his jaw. His gaze turns thoughtful. “Have you ever gotten goose bumps for no reason? Been in a room and felt like there was someone there with you?”

My breath catches. Sometimes when I’m here by myself, I swear I can hear a low voice in the back corner humming the chorus of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” The floorboards creak with the pattern of footsteps I know by heart and I expect Aunt Matilda to emerge from an aisle with a wind chime or a ring plate, proudly showing off her latest treasure.

“Sometimes,” I croak.

He takes another pull from his coffee. “Probably a ghost nearby. You feel it, even if you don’t understand it. Children can usually tell better than adults.” He pauses and tilts his head to the side, thinking. It’s a painfully human gesture. Entirely earnest. “Cats, too,” he adds with a small smile.

“Cats?”

He nods. “Cats can always tell when there’s a ghost.”

“Is there—can you tell if there’s another ghost here? Right now?”

He frowns. “In your shop?”

I nod, scarcely daring to breathe. He looks around quickly, eyes darting over the back corner without bothering to linger. My hope sputters and extinguishes.

“No,” he says slowly. His eyes crawl back to mine. “No, there’s no one else here.”

“That’s okay,” I say quickly, even though he doesn’t offer an apology. He’s looking at me like he’s waiting for an explanation, but I don’t want to unpack that particular hurt. “I have another question.”

He huffs, lips quirking up at the corners. “Of course you do.”

“Do you have a name, or do you prefer your … title?”

His forehead creases in confusion.

“Your name,” I say slowly. “Surely you have one.”

Or maybe he doesn’t. What do I know? My brain is still fourteen miles behind, eyeing this entire situation with thinly veiled skepticism.

A Ghost of Christmas Past. Haunting me .

A straight line appears between his eyebrows. “I haven’t mentioned it?”

I shake my head.

“My apologies.” He stands to his full height, only a handful of inches taller than me but somehow managing to seem more. I tip my chin up to look at him, watching as a shadow passes behind his eyes. He holds his hand out between us, almost painfully old-fashioned. But then, I suppose he would be, wouldn’t he?

“My name is Nolan. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I stare at his hand suspiciously. Last night he offered me his hand for an entirely different reason. “If I grab your hand, you’re not going to suddenly whisk me off to a ghost realm, are you?”

His chest shakes in silent laughter. “No. I’m not going to whisk you off to a ghost realm. I’m going to shake your hand with mine. This is an introduction, yes?”

Fair enough.

I slowly extend my hand toward his and he clasps my fingers gently, his big palm dwarfing mine. His hand is slightly cold, calluses at the base of his palm. I expect a jolt or a shower of sparks, but nothing out of the ordinary happens when we touch. I’m not jerked to an alternate reality. No swirling portal of doom opens at our feet. We stand there, shaking hands, at the front of my cozy little antiques shop.

“It’s nice to meet you, Nolan.”

His chin dips. “Likewise, Harriet.”

We continue shaking hands, staring at each other. His grip tightens against mine and the amusement slowly fades from his face. Instead he studies me like he’s looking for something, a furrow between his brows. I keep my face open, letting him look. I have nothing to hide.

Somewhere in the depths of the shop, a chair screeches across the floor.

I tug my hand away and cradle it against my chest. Nolan clears his throat.

“I talked to my supervisor, like you asked,” he offers in the resulting silence. He picks his coffee back up and takes a long sip. I try not to notice how he places his mouth right over the faint red lipstick mark I left behind.

“Oh, wow. I sort of forgot I demanded that last night.” Peppermint Harriet is a firecracker.

Amusement reappears in the lines of his face, softening his harsh angles. “I truly find it hard to believe that anyone thinks you need to stand your ground.”

“Yes, well. Like I said, I thought that was a dream.” I busy myself with wiping away the condensation ring left on the counter with the sleeve of my sweater. “What did your supervisor have to say?”

I imagine some ghostly apparition sitting on a throne, a long and billowing robe on her regal frame. Nolan kneeling at her feet in supplication. An ancient tome open on her lap, my name underlined twice.

HARRIET YORK , she probably boomed. DESERVES TO PAY PENANCE. MAKE HER SUFFER.

“She said mistakes aren’t made. If I’m haunting you, there’s a reason.”

I frown at the wet spot on my pale green sweater. I think of a cold night in the middle of December, my hands clenched into fists against my skirt. My mother’s face, anguished before she became angry.

“What are the reasons?” I ask.

Nolan raises an eyebrow.

“Like, what reasons do you usually have for haunting someone?

Give me an example, so I know what I might be guilty of.”

He huffs a breath, turning his eyes up to the tin ceiling in thought. “There was a man once who kept raising the rent on one of his tenants until she could no longer afford her home, purely because she rejected his advances. Another who fired everyone who worked beneath him the day before Christmas.”

I flinch. “Oof.”

“There was a woman who kept calling the cops on the kids in her neighborhood who liked to play basketball. Another who consistently sent scam emails to her friends and family. Oh, and of course the father who never remembered his kid’s Christmas concerts. Instead, he was at the casino, bankrolled by the family savings account.”

I frown. “I haven’t done anything like that.”

“I guess we’ll see,” he says easily, but there’s a wariness there. A low hum of warning that tells me he won’t be pushed. Not on this.

I can tell he doesn’t believe me—that he thinks I’m hiding some big secret—but the joke’s on him. My biggest secret is I sometimes leave my clothes in the dryer for over a week, continuously restarting the machine to ease the wrinkles that never seem to fully come out. I’m hardly the monster he thinks I am.

Except for one night. One mistake.

And I’ve already paid the price for that misstep.

“And how do you plan on judging me?” I ask slowly. I try to remember what happened in A Christmas Carol , but it’s a blur. A ghost with a turkey leg, maybe? A door knocker that came alive? I definitely remember a ghost with chains around his wrists and ankles, shuffling about.

I peer over the edge of the counter and look at Nolan’s legs. Two brown boots, slightly scuffed.

No chains.

“I’ll be your guide and together we’ll observe your memories. We’ll land in the ones that need examining and when you have your epiphany moment, you’ll be handed off to the next ghost. It’s a fairly simple process.”

“Simple.” A laugh bubbles out of me. “None of this is simple, Nolan.”

Nolan nods, the shadow of a smile appearing on his face. But it’s gone as quick as it arrives, a solemn look etched across the lines of his face. Either he’s had remarkably easy assignments before me, or he’s been doing this for so long he doesn’t realize what an absolute trip all of this is.

“It can be if you let it. What else are you doing right now?”

“Right now?” I glance around the shop. “Right now I’m working.” His mouth pulls into a flat line as his eyes scan the empty shop.

“Yes, I can see you’re very busy.”

Indignation straightens my spine. “I have hardware I need to organize. Some paperwork to catch up on. My trees—” I gesture in the direction of the two Douglas firs still standing at attention in the windows, their branches bare. “I need to tend to my trees.”

“Your trees will be fine.”

“You don’t know that.”

“When I arrived, you were staring mournfully at a tiny bird. You’ve got the time.” He taps his cup against the counter twice. “Let’s go.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Right now?”

He finishes the rest of his coffee, tossing the empty cup in the bin behind the register. “Yes, right now.” He gives me a stern look. “You’re resisting quite a bit for someone who is supposedly a good person . Do you have something to hide, Harriet?”

“No,” I say, defensive. Crap. That definitely sounds like I have something to hide. Which I don’t. “What if Sasha needs me? I can’t just disappear.”

“We’ll come back to this exact moment, down to the second. It’ll be like no time has passed at all.” He holds out his hand between us again, palm up. I take two steps back and hold mine against my chest.

Nolan sighs, fingers flexing. “Harriet.”

“I’m just—I’m nervous.” I exhale sharply. “What does it feel like?”

“What does what feel like?”

I can hear more of his accent when he’s frustrated. A rough start and stop that rolls along the edges of his words. I wonder how it sounds when he’s angry or tired. If the same thing happens when he’s happy.

He doesn’t seem like he’s very happy.

I twist my fingers together. “Visiting the … ghostly portal, or whatever. Will it hurt?” I ask.

“No, it won’t hurt,” he says, his face finally softening in understanding. “It feels—it feels like stepping into a dream.” He reaches for me and the tips of his fingers brush against the back of my hand, silently urging me to let go. To trust him. To believe this extraordinary fairy tale my life has somehow become. “Like falling asleep when you’re on a long and winding road and waking up somewhere else.”

“Oh.” I blink at him, the tension abruptly leaving my shoulders. The way he described it, it sounds like something I want to do. “Have you considered a career in sales?”

“Not remotely,” he answers. He swallows, eyes searching mine. “You’ll be safe with me. You have my word.”

I worry my bottom lip with my teeth and release the tight grip I have on myself. My hands tremble. “You won’t let go?”

He shakes his head. “I won’t let go.”

“Promise me.” If I’m going to indulge this exercise, I want confirmation that I won’t end up in the eighth circle of hell. Or on the island from Lost . I’d die in 0.2 seconds if I saw a polar bear in the jungle.

Nolan steps closer. “I promise you, Harriet. I won’t let go.”

I could argue some more, find some reason to drag my feet. I’m still not sure how I ended up here, but I suppose seeing is believing. Nolan held up his end of the bargain. It’s time to hold up mine.

I suppose I always have believed in Christmas magic.

I extend my hand, press my palm to his, and together we disappear.