The house is wrapped in the hush of winter. Outside, snow drifts gently past the windows, the flakes catching the glow of the porch light before melting into the darkness. Inside, everything feels slow and soft — the golden lamps, the quiet crackle of the fire, the faint scent of pine and vanilla that lingers from earlier baking. The wooden floor creaks faintly as the warmth from the fireplace settles through the room.

The Christmas tree stands near the window, its branches heavy with ornaments the children helped hang. A few are crooked, some clustered together, but Simon left them that way — he said it felt more real. The lights shimmer softly, their reflection dancing over the picture frames and the garland that drapes across the mantel.

Simon sits on the rug, shoulders relaxed, sleeves rolled up, the photo album resting on his knees. His fingers trace the edge of an old photograph — one where he’s holding your eldest, barely a year old, tiny hand gripping his shirt. You’re beside him in the picture, smiling, your belly round and full with the second child you were carrying then.

He studies the image in silence for a long moment, the glow from the tree flickering over his face. In the distance, the faint hum of the baby monitor whispers through the quiet, a soft reminder of the life upstairs — two ones asleep, and a little one dreaming in the cradle.

Simon’s lips curve faintly, the ghost of a smile that carries both pride and disbelief. He exhales through his nose, a soft sound that nearly blends with the rustle of the fire. Then he looks up, eyes warm, the corners crinkling just a little.

“Feels like yesterday.” He murmurs, voice low and rough, almost lost in the crackle of the logs.