I swallowed. “I’m trying very hard not to.”
She gave a small, satisfied nod and disappeared into the moving crowd.
I stepped out into the cold again, the door closing softly behind me. Snow was still falling, gentler now, dusting the steps and railings. The square below looked almost unreal–like one of those Christmas villages people put on mantels, frozen mid-scene. My breath drifted in front of me as I stood there.
The Christmas Ball.
Her grandmother.
The bakery.
The estate papers weighed heavily on my shoulders.
I had come here to execute a set of instructions. Sell what needed selling. Consolidate, tidy, move on. Instead, I’d walked straight into the middle of a life. Into memories and grief and traditions and a woman who looked at this town like it was stitched into her bones. And I was starting to realise that whatever decision I made…it wasn’t just numbers on a page anymore.
It was her.
Her home.
Her history.
And, if I was honest with myself for even a second–it was becoming mine too.
Chapter Seventeen
The town hall always smelled the same this time of year. Pine garlands, old wood, dust from boxes dragged out of storage, sugary spice from whatever the baking club brought to keep everyone fuelled. For most of my life, that scent meant excitement. It meant Christmas was close, that the world was soft and bright and wrapped in tradition.
Today, it just made my throat tight.
As soon as the meeting wrapped, the mayor practically dragged me toward the stage with a stack of diagrams for the buffet table layout. Ivy was already talking to the volunteers, arranging groups like she’d been born to coordinate chaos. People filtered out in their usual post-meeting flurry: coats pulled on, gossip swirling, plans unfolding.
I stood there nodding, smiling when expected, offering input when needed.
Inside, I felt… hollow.
By the time the mayor finished chatting with me, my head ached. I slipped out the side door of the town hall, the cold air hitting me like a reminder that the world was still turning evenif I felt stuck in the same December shadow I’d been fighting for years.
The snow had picked up again, dusting the stone steps and clinging to the wool of my coat. I pulled my scarf higher around my chin and started down the path.
Ivy caught up to me a minute later, her boots crunching over the snow.
“Are you okay?” she asked softly.
I kept walking. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Bri.”
Her tone made me stop.
“Come on, talk to me.”
I exhaled, long and shaky. “It’s just… this time of year.”
She nodded gently. “I know.”
My grandmother’s face flickered across my mind–her warm hands, her soft grey hair always pulled into a loose bun, her laugh that sounded like wind chimes. She used to bring me to the town hall every December, clutching my tiny hand in hers as we decorated for the Ball.
She’d hum while she hung garlands. She’d let me stand on a chair to place the star on the little practice tree. She’d sneak me shortbread from her coat pocket like we were conspiring against the world. Christmas was her favourite time of year, and she absolutely loved Pine Hollow. But sadly, time caught up with her and one moment she was in the kitchen baking cookies and then the next, she was saying her goodbyes as she passed away in her sleep. And every December since has felt… off-balance. Like a chair with one leg shorter than the others.
