tment. After their last conversation, she felt a deep need for answers. The mystery of Tom Webster had

quiet street, its red bricks weathered by time. Her fingers hesitated over the doorbell, her mind racing with possibiliti

button longer. Still nothing. A sinking feeling settled in her chest. She scanned the street, hoping to catch a glimp

but to an older man in his sixties, wearing a cardigan and hol

you, miss?

for Tom Webster. He lives her

thing darker-sadness, perhaps. "Tom Webster?" he repeated slowly. "I'm

"Do you know whe

ink you should come in. There'

ocking

arina into a small but tidy sitting room, offering her a seat and a cup of

ice laced with a mix of fondness and melancholy. "He was a good tenant,

?" she whispered, her mind st

. He was hit by a car on his way to deliver gifts to the childre

ere must be some mistake. I... I've been spending time wit

ell you what I know. Tom's parents arranged to clear out his things after the funeral. They said he'

heart transplant. The connection she'd felt with Tom. The way he

onfir

er hands trembled as she filled out the request for information about her donor, something she'd avoided doing out of fear

her bed, she unfolded it with shaky hands. The wo

Tom flooded her mind-his kindness, his wisdom, his uncanny ability to say exactly what she

tual Co

tions. The city lights reflected on the water, and the air carried a biting chill. She sat in sile

into the night. "Somehow

ence. It wasn't the same as before, but it was enough. Enough to assure her that she wasn't al

ears of sorrow. They were tears of acceptance, of understanding,

bench one last time. "Thank you, Tom," she sa

is memory-and his heart-with her, ready to

nce and

arols. It was a quiet sense of belonging and purpose, born from her recent revelations and the people she'd met along the way. Tom's presence-both

e

the corner of the room, her gaze drifting to a group of young children decorating a small tree with tinsel and mismatched ornaments. Their laughter was infectious

he blurted out, startling Marjorie,

ilted her head. "

ries, even a little play. The guests and volunteers could showcase their talents,

lovely idea, dear. But pulling something like t

ndle the planning, rehearsals, everything.

moment before nodding. "A

ing t

fted a signup sheet, recruited performers, and even convinced a local bakery to donate refre

ge in herself. She was no longer the hesitant, self-doubting woman who'd walked into the shelter wee

ation too. During one of her rare evenings

y," her mother said, he

ted. "It's because I... I've finally let go of some

th unshed tears. "I'm pro

rce, and she hugged her mother tightly,

ristma

a festive wonderland. Strings of lights twinkled overhead, and paper snowflakes hung f

lineup. The show opened with a group of children performing a playful skit about Sa

lt poem about hope, a trio of volunteers performed a jazzy rendition of "Jingle Bells,"

the stage, her hands trembling slightly. She

spite the lump in her throat. "But it's also been the most transformative. Someo

nce swayed and clapped along, their faces glowing with joy. As she sang the final notes, she felt an overwhel

t to R

her cheeks. She joined the other performers on stage, linking hands with them for a bow. The n

elf standing by the tree with Marta. Her sister's expressio

t," Marta said. "I alway

rt full. "Thank you, M

seemed to vanish, replaced by the bond the

ng F

was crisp, and the stars shone brightly overhead. She closed her eyes and fel

whispered into the nigh

tion, ready to embrace the future with