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“We can get some if you like.”

“Oh, I like.”

A burst of cold wind gusts down the street, bringing with it a tiny snow tornado. The freezing air hurts my teeth, but I can’t stop smiling.

“I can’t believe this is a real place.”

He laughs and begins to walk toward the stoplight. “Just you wait. I will make a believer out of you, Annalise Harris.”

I grab his arm, wrapping my fingers around the plushness of his down coat, tugging him in the opposite direction.

“Not before I make a jaywalker out of you, Mackenzie Smith.”

We get distracted by two gift shops, a toy shop, and a store devoted entirely to brooms.

The hot chocolate tastes even better than it smells. We drink it inside a tiny blow-up igloo that insulates us from the snow and wind outside. I can hear the carolers harmonizing their way through a playlist of Christmas classics just outside. It gives me both an emotional and a sugar high as I tip my mug back and drain the last drop.

Mackenzie tilts my cup so he can see the bottom. There’s nothing left other than some fine granules of crushed candy cane.

“So, what do you want to do next?” He pops my empty cup under his and shoots them like a basketball into a nearby garbage can. “There’s a little Christmas market up the street we can check out or a bigger one just outside town. We also have to save some time to pick up our tree. I googled a place that’s on the way back.”

All of those options sound amazing, but his mention of a Christmas market has reminded me of something I have wanted to do for a few weeks now. “I’d love to find an ornament for our tree.”

He smiles. “I think I can help with that.”

We get back in the car and drive to a German-style Christmas market outside of St. Jacobs. Like the town, the moment it comes into view, my breath catches in the back of my throat because it feels like it came straight off the front of a Christmas card. The main area of the market is housed in a humongous red barn surrounded by what feels like a hundred wooden stalls selling everything from candied nuts to fudge to handmade jewelry and every Christmas ornament you can imagine.

The lingering storm clouds make the late-afternoon light feel darker than it should, but above us are strings of lights that create a magical, twinkling canopy as we walk from stall to stall. We wander for almost an hour before we stop to eat sausages covered in sauerkraut and giant salted pretzels, which we wash down with spiced apple cider pulled from a cauldron over a crackling fire.

At every stall, my eyes skim the rows of Christmas ornaments, but none of them are quite right.

“I need to hit the bathroom.” Mackenzie nods toward the barn. “Then we should probably head out and grab our tree. Is there anything else you want to check out, or do you want to meet up in the square?”

“Why don’t we meet by the Beaver Tails in ten?” I ask. “I’m going to wander down there.” I point toward an area tucked away behind the barn.

Mackenzie nods and heads off. I wander down a small aisle we missed earlier, and that’s where I find it—at the very last stall, my eyes are drawn to a tiny Santa Claus wearing a black biker jacket, sitting on top of a Harley Davidson motorcycle. Etched into the motorcycle’s front headlight is the year 2025. Santa’s jacket is eerily close to Mackenzie’s, and Santa looks a little like Larry if you squint your eyes.

“I have a weird question for you,” I say to the vendor as she wraps my Santa in tissue. “Do you have any ornaments left over from last year?”

“Sorry, hon,” she says. “I usually sell out everything a week or two before Christmas.”

Larry passed away three days before Christmas. I was too busy with work and taking care of him to buy my 2024 ornament, and when he died, I no longer had the heart. Grief-stricken, I decided that it was time to end the tradition. I had no one to carry it on with, and forcing myself to do it alone would only be an annual reminder of everything I’d lost. But as I cradle the little motorcycle Santa in my hands, I realize that although the pain is still there, it’s peppered in between a lot of really good memories. I only wish I could also find something to commemorate last year.

I end up meeting Mackenzie back near the Beaver Tails as planned, and since we’re already there, we decide to split the deep-fried Canadian treat.

“Did you find something?” Mackenzie asks as he licks cinnamon and sugar from his coated fingers.

I tap the side of my purse. “I absolutely did.”

“All right, then.” He holds out his arm. “Let’s go get our tree.”

We walk back toward the parking lot, crossing an outdoor picnic area set up with tables and a small stage featuring a single lone guitarist.

We stop to listen for a moment. He’s pretty good. Not Mackenzie good—but his voice blends with the soft strumming of his guitar, and with the dark night and the twinkling lights, the experience feels almost surreal.

“Shall we go?” Mackenzie asks as the song ends. I nod and follow him, but just as we reach the edge of the square, the singer begins his next song, and the opening notes freeze me in place.

“He’s playing Jimmy Buffett,” I tell Mackenzie. “ ‘Bring Back the Magic.’ It was my uncle’s favorite song.”