The next morning, I woke up late.

For a moment, I just lay there, buried under the blankets, my body heavy with exhaustion. The room was quiet, the kind of stillness that only came when the rest of the house had already been awake for hours.

I turned my head, squinting at the clock on my nightstand.

10:43 AM.

I blinked, my brain sluggishly processing the time. I hadn’t meant to sleep in so late, but after everything that had happened the night before, it made sense. My body had just shut down the moment I hit the bed.

I stretched, wincing at how stiff my muscles felt, then sat up slowly. The little stuffed bear from the bus station was still sitting on my nightstand, its worn fur catching the soft morning light filtering through my curtains. I reached for it without thinking, running my fingers over the fabric.

Last night felt like a blur. The cold, the fear, the moment Mrs. Blake found me—it all swirled in my head like pieces of a dream, but the weight in my chest reminded me it had been real.

I was still here.

Still home.

A faint murmur of voices drifted up from downstairs, mixed with the distant sound of dishes clinking. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to face anyone yet, but I couldn’t just stay in bed forever.

Taking a deep breath, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood, gripping the bear a little tighter as I made my way to the door.

When I got downstairs, Lily and Sam were at school. I guess Mrs. Blake didn’t want to wake me.

I made my way into the kitchen, the smell of coffee still lingering in the air. Mrs. Blake stood by the sink, rinsing out a mug, her hair slightly disheveled like she hadn’t gotten much sleep either.

She glanced up as I stepped in, her face softening. “Morning, sweetheart. You slept late.”

I shrugged, leaning against the counter. “Yeah. Guess I was tired.”

She dried her hands on a dish towel before setting it aside. “How are you feeling?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer that. “Better,” I said finally, though it didn’t feel like the full truth.

Mrs. Blake didn’t push. Instead, she studied me for a moment, like she was trying to piece together what was still going on in my head.

I hesitated, then asked the question that had been sitting in the back of my mind all morning. “How did you know where I was?”

She sighed, setting the mug on the counter. “Your phone.”

I blinked. “What?”

“I woke up and checked on you, and when I saw you were gone, I panicked. I tried calling, but you didn’t answer. Then I checked your phone location—it showed you at the bus station.”

I swallowed, guilt creeping in. I hadn’t even thought about that.

Mrs. Blake’s voice was gentle. “I grabbed my coat and left right away. I wasn’t going to wait around hoping you’d come back on your own.”

I stared at the tiled floor, my fingers tightening around the hem of my sleeve. “I wasn’t gonna go far,” I murmured.

“Maybe not,” she said softly. “But I wasn’t about to take that chance.”

I bit my lip, my throat tightening. I didn’t know what to say to that.

She reached out, placing a warm hand on my shoulder. “Emily, if you ever feel like running again—if you ever feel like you don’t belong—please talk to me first. No matter what, okay?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice to hold steady.

Mrs. Blake gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze before stepping back. “Now, are you hungry? You missed breakfast, but I can make you something.”

My stomach growled in response, and despite everything, a small smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “That’d be nice.”

Mrs. Blake smiled and gestured toward the table. “Go ahead and sit down. I’ll fix you something.”

I hesitated for a moment, then pulled out a chair and sank into it, resting my arms on the wooden surface. The kitchen felt warm, comforting—the smell of coffee lingering in the air, the faint sound of the heater humming in the background. It felt safe.

Mrs. Blake moved around the kitchen with ease, pulling out eggs, bread, and a skillet. The familiar sounds of cooking filled the space—the soft crack of eggs against the counter, the sizzle as they hit the pan, the quiet clink of the toaster as she pressed the lever down.

She worked in silence for a while, only speaking when she glanced over her shoulder. “Do you want scrambled or fried?”

“Scrambled,” I said, my voice still a little hoarse from sleep.

She nodded, stirring the eggs as they cooked. “You want cheese in ‘em?”

“Yeah.”

Another small nod. Like this was just any normal morning. Like I hadn’t been sitting at a bus station in the middle of the night, trying to convince myself I had nowhere else to go.

She slid the eggs onto a plate, adding a slice of toast and setting it in front of me. A second later, she placed a glass of orange juice next to it.

I stared down at the plate for a moment before picking up my fork. The first bite felt like something settling deep in my chest—like I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until now.

Mrs. Blake sat across from me, her hands wrapped around a coffee mug. She didn’t say anything, didn’t press me for more answers. She just sat there, watching me with quiet understanding.

I sat there thinking, why did I run away? Why would I leave a place that has food like this?

I took another bite, chewing slowly before glancing up at her.

“Thank you,” I said softly.

She smiled. “Always.”

Later that evening, I sat at the kitchen table with my homework spread out in front of me—Sam had brought it home for me—but I wasn’t making much progress. My pencil hovered over the page, but instead of solving the next problem, I found myself doodling in the margins—a snowflake here, a tree there. Outside the window, the world was covered in a fresh layer of snow, the soft glow of the streetlights reflecting off the untouched white blanket, making everything look quiet and still.

But inside, something felt... off.

For almost a week, December had been quietly creeping in, but the house didn’t feel like it. There were no garlands on the mantel, no wreath on the front door, and certainly no Christmas tree in the living room. It wasn’t something I’d noticed at first, but now the absence of holiday decorations felt strange—like something was missing.

Back home in Georgia, Christmas had been different. The first cold snap usually hit in early December, and Mama would start talking about making pecan pies and sweet potato casserole weeks in advance. Our tree always went up the first weekend after Thanksgiving—Papa would haul in a fresh pine tree, the scent filling the whole house, and Mama would string the lights while I carefully unwrapped each ornament, remembering where they came from.

I set my pencil down and glanced toward the living room, where Mrs. Blake was tidying up. The question had been forming in my mind all evening, but now it pushed forward, demanding to be asked.

“Mrs. Blake?” I called, my voice hesitant.

“Yes, Emily?” she replied, poking her head around the corner, a dust rag still in her hand.

I shifted in my seat, suddenly unsure if I should even ask. But curiosity won out. “Why don’t we have a Christmas tree? Or... any decorations?”

Mrs. Blake blinked, surprised by the question, then smiled softly. She set down the rag and came to sit across from me at the table, folding her hands neatly in front of her. “That’s a fair question,” she said, her voice calm and thoughtful. “We’ve never really been big on decorations or the more traditional side of Christmas.”

I frowned. “Why not? Isn’t that, like, part of the holiday?”

Mrs. Blake leaned back slightly, her gaze thoughtful. “For a lot of people, yes. But for us, it’s always felt... different. Part of it is that so much of the holiday has become commercialized. Everywhere you look, there’s pressure to buy the biggest tree, string up the brightest lights, and give the most extravagant gifts. It’s easy to get lost in all of that and forget what the season is really about.”

I nodded slowly, thinking about the way stores seemed to explode with red and green decorations the second Thanksgiving was over. Back home, it wasn’t about the fancy stuff.

Mama always made Christmas special, even when we didn’t have much. She and I would bake together, rolling out sugar cookie dough while Christmas music crackled from the old radio on the counter. She’d hum along to the songs, bumping her hip against mine playfully when she caught me sneaking extra dough. And Papa—he’d always pretend to grumble about the mess, but by the time the cookies were cooling, he’d be in his rocking chair, telling stories about Christmases when he was a boy.

“I guess that makes sense,” I admitted. “But don’t Lily and Sam miss it? Like, the lights and the tree and all that?”

Mrs. Blake smiled warmly. “They’ve never really known it any other way. Instead of focusing on things, we’ve always tried to make the holidays about experiences. We bake cookies, make crafts, play games, and spend time together. It might not look like the Christmas you see in movies, but for us, it’s perfect.”

I considered her words, the simplicity of them. “Do you ever miss having a tree?”

“Not really,” she said with a small shrug. “When I was younger, my family always had one, and it was nice. But as I got older, I realized I didn’t need a tree to feel the magic of Christmas. The magic comes from the people you share it with, not the decorations on the walls.”

Her words settled over me like a blanket, warm and comforting in their honesty.

Christmas had always been loud in our house—laughter, music, the clatter of dishes as Mama and Papa cooked up a feast that could’ve fed the whole county. And at night, we’d sit by the fireplace, the stockings hanging above, drinking hot cocoa while Papa carved little wooden animals for me with his pocketknife.

But then, there was that last Christmas—the one that should have been like any other. The house was warm, filled with the smell of Mama’s cooking, the sound of Papa’s laughter echoing through the walls. We sang along to Christmas songs on the radio, baked cookies that never quite came out right, and stayed up late, drinking cocoa by the fire while Papa told stories from when he was a boy.

It was perfect.

I remember falling asleep that night, my stomach full, my heart light, thinking about how lucky I was. How safe and happy everything felt.

And then, the next day, he was gone.

One moment, Mama was kissing him goodbye as he left to run a quick errand in town. The next, there was a knock at the door. A somber face. A voice that didn’t sound real, saying words I couldn’t comprehend. Car crash. Instant. Nothing they could do.

I remember the way the air changed. The way the warmth from the night before seemed to vanish in an instant, replaced by something cold and hollow. How the Christmas lights still twinkled on the tree like nothing had happened, like the world hadn’t just fallen apart.

That was my last Christmas with Papa. The last time everything had felt whole.

“So, it’s about being together,” I said quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Exactly,” Mrs. Blake said, her smile widening. “For us, Christmas is about slowing down, appreciating what we have, and finding joy in the little things. The decorations are nice, but they’re not what makes the season special.”

I nodded, but something in my chest tightened.

“What do you do on Christmas Day?” I asked, leaning forward, trying to focus on her words instead of the sudden lump in my throat.

She tilted her head, her expression warm and fond. “We start the morning by making breakfast together—Lily insists on snowman-shaped pancakes. Then we exchange small, meaningful gifts, nothing extravagant. The rest of the day is spent playing games, watching movies, or just enjoying each other’s company. It’s simple, but it’s ours.”

I tried to smile, but my fingers curled slightly against the edge of the table.

I thought back to Christmases with my mom. They’d always been chaotic, full of last-minute shopping and rushed preparations. Papa would grumble about the traffic in town, Mama would shush him while she tried to get everything done, and I’d run between them, caught up in the whirlwind of it all. It had been messy. Loud. Imperfect.

But it had been ours.

And then there was that last Christmas.

For a second, I could almost feel it again—Papa’s arms wrapping around me in a tight hug, Mama laughing as she pulled a pie out of the oven, the way the lights from the Christmas tree cast soft, golden glows on the walls. It had been happy, warm, whole.

And then, the next day, he was gone.

The memory hit me harder than I expected. My throat tightened, my eyes burning as I looked down at my hands, suddenly unable to meet Mrs. Blake’s gaze.

“I think I like that,” I said finally, but my voice wasn’t as steady as before.

Mrs. Blake must have noticed. She reached across the table, her hand covering mine in a gentle squeeze. “You’re part of it now, Emily,” she said softly. “Whatever Christmas means to us, it’s something we share with you.”

I swallowed hard, my fingers gripping hers before I even realized I’d done it.

Her words caught me off guard, sinking in deeper than I thought they would. You’re part of it now.

I wasn’t just here. I wasn’t just staying for Christmas.

I was part of it.

The lump in my throat grew, my chest tightening with something too big to name. It wasn’t sadness, not entirely. It wasn’t grief, either, though that feeling still lingered, always hovering in the background.

It was something else.

Something that almost felt like hope.

I blinked quickly, staring down at the table, focusing on the worn wood grain to keep the tears at bay.

For the first time, I realized that Christmas didn’t have to look a certain way to be special.

It just had to feel right.

And sitting there with Mrs. Blake, the snow falling softly outside, the warmth of her hand over mine, it finally did.