“So I brought something neutral.”
Owen opened the torn wrapping.
Inside was an old hardcover book.
The Night Before Christmas.
Illustrated edition.
Owen stopped.
Autumn immediately misread his silence.
“Too sentimental.”
“No.”
He touched the cover.
“My wife used to read this to Lily every Christmas Eve.”
Autumn’s face softened.
“I didn’t know.”
“How could you?”
He looked at her.
“This was Sarah’s favorite version.”
Same illustrator.
Different printing.
Autumn stared.
“What are the odds?”
Owen did not know.
The whole evening had begun feeling like someone was moving pieces around them.
Grant.
Fake introductions.
A book connected to his dead wife.
Too many coincidences.
Autumn saw his concern.
“You think Grant knew?”
“I don’t know.”
She looked at the book.
“I bought it yesterday.”
“At a used bookstore near my office.”
“Which one?”
“Bellweather Books.”
Owen knew it.
He had donated Sarah’s old books there after she died.
Not all.
But boxes.
His stomach tightened.
He opened the front cover.
There was handwriting inside.
Faded blue ink.
To Lily, for every Christmas we get together. Love, Mom.
Owen stopped breathing.
Autumn looked over.
“Oh my God.”
It was Sarah’s book.
Not merely the same edition.
The actual copy.
Owen had forgotten donating it.
He remembered now.
After Sarah died, he had packed anything he could not bear seeing.
Boxes.
Books.
Clothes.
He did not always know what went where.
Some things he later regretted.
He ran one finger across the handwriting.
Autumn whispered:
“Owen, I swear I had no idea.”
“I believe you.”
“How did I randomly buy this?”
Owen looked toward her.
The same question bothered them both.
Then Autumn’s expression changed.
“No.”
“What?”
“The bookstore.”
“What about it?”
She pulled her dead phone from her bag again.
“Grant used to go there.”
Owen felt his jaw tighten.
“Did he know you were buying the gift?”
“I posted a photo yesterday.”
“Where?”
“My private Instagram.”
“Is he blocked?”
“Yes.”
“Could he see it?”
“He shouldn’t.”
There it was again.
Shouldn’t.