Before I could stop him, he turned and walked away, looking back as if asking me to follow. Barefoot and shaking, I did. He led me through quiet streets to a house from my childhood, a place tied to memories of safety and my mother’s voice.
An elderly woman answered the door and recognized Cole immediately. She explained he had been visiting her for days, restless and searching. Inside her warm kitchen, over tea, I finally allowed myself to grieve aloud.
We spent Christmas Eve together, bound by shared loss and kindness. When I returned home with Cole, I finished decorating the tree and placed the ornament where my mother always had. The house was quiet, but no longer empty—filled instead with memory, love, and gentle healing.
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