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I waited.

This was something Boone had taught me without knowing it.

Silence was not always concealment. Sometimes it was room.

He put one hand on the box.

"Dad liked Christmas."

I looked at him.

Of all the things I knew about Big John—his size, his silence, his rules, his hidden debt—I had not expected that sentence.

Boone's thumb moved through the dust.

"Didn't talk much from New Year's to Thanksgiving. Got worse every fall." His mouth shifted faintly. "Then December came and he put lights on everything that held still."

I smiled.

Boone looked toward the open loft door. "He did the drive alone. Wouldn't let us help."

"Why?"

"Said we did it wrong."

"Did you?"

"Probably." His smile lasted one second. Then it left. "Last year, I couldn't open these."

Plain.

No defense built around it.

No explanation about work or weather.

Couldn't.

I put my hand over his. "You didn't have to."

"Wyatt found reasons. Cash made plans in town. I worked." His fingers turned beneath mine until our palms met. "House stayed dark."

Grief sat beside us.

Not an enemy.

Not a thing requiring repair.

Just another member of the family, large and quiet, finally allowed a chair.

"I'm sorry," I said.

Boone nodded once. Then he looked at the boxes. "This year."

The words took a moment to settle.

Not maybe. Not if the refinance worked. Not if Ashford went away. This year.

I looked at him. "You mean it?"