‘Excuse me?’ Quinn called.
The figure picked up the pace, fleeing the graveyard. Winded with a stitch, Quinn bent over. ‘Wow, I’m unfit.’
The robin fluttered by, tweeting as it did so.
‘Alright, Dad, you don’t have to make fun of me.’
* * *
Quinn stared at the three chapters in front of him from a manuscript long since abandoned.
They had been edited many times, and each time, Quinn spotted something else wrong with it, which is why it could never be published. He couldn’t remember now why he hadn’t kept writing alongside his job. Maybe a part of him had lost hope. But now, the cursor blinking at the end paragraph of chapter three, Quinn felt silly. He was proud of what he’d written, if he could say so himself. There was no reason this bookcouldn’tbe on the shelves.
Except there was a reason: he didn’t believe in himself.
He sighed, taking a swig of wine from the glass he had poured. Outside, rain replaced the snow, prompting a lack of hope for a white Christmas. His lights dimmed, the Christmas tree twinkling in the corner of his apartment. Despite the atmosphere outside being more suited to Halloween, Quinn felt cosy and warm, refusing to let his Christmas spirit disappear.
Christmas miracles.
That’s what he needed.
This could be his miracle.
He saved the chapters, went back to Hermione Sage’s submission page, where he had already filled out all his details, and then attached his three chapters. He stared at the submission page, almost deciding to exit out of it and laugh about his delusion later, but before he knew it, he hit submit.
The page disappeared, replaced with another page reading ‘Thank you for your submission.’
Quinn leaned back in his chair.
He’d done it.
He took his wineglass, lifting it to the air and the empty room. ‘Cheers.’
A knock at the door. Quinn almost spilt his wine down his chin.
Who would that be? And how did they get up the stairs? Unless he’d left the downstairs door unlocked? Meaning there was a stranger in his building. What if it was the retreating figure? Surely, they knew he’d seen them. They ran from him, after all.
Quinn headed to the door, but not before arming himself with the first thing he could find: an apple from the fruit bowl. Well, if someone attacked, he could pelt them in the head with something quite solid.
Quinn reached for the handle, and with a deep breath, opened the door.
‘Oh.’
It wasn’t the retreating figure.
Unless Noah Sage was the man leaving red roses on his father’s grave.
‘Sorry. The downstairs door was open, and I wanted to check you were okay.’
‘You … me?’ What was this, a matchmaking moment? ‘You wanted to check on me?’
‘That’s right,’ Noah said. ‘Not often you see a downstairs door open. Worried maybe someone had broken in.’
‘No, just my absent mind,’ Quinn said. ‘Um… Do you want to come in?’
Noah held up his hands, looking panicked. ‘I wasn’t hinting or anything. No, I wanted to check everything was okay.’
‘I believe you. Oh, you think I’m inviting you in to like murder you or something?’
