The snow crunched under his boots; the cold tickled bare cheeks and neck, nibbled at palms. It's strange to call winter comfortable, but in Jackson, it's soft, leisurely carpeting the ground. Holiday lights reflect in children's eyes, and the apocalypse is overshadowed; no worries, just the anticipation of a miracle.

It's not perfect, but the picture of that distant life has been erased from his memory: over twenty years, and here—life begins again. Blossoming amidst the harsh conditions, bursting forth like snowdrops through winter. He survived all this way; maybe it was meant to be; maybe fate played the King and then nominated the Queen—you.

The fragrant scent of spruce greets him on the doorstep, then a quiet humming—song not preserved on cassettes and records but on your lips. You remember that melody—unhurried, calm, instilling the wonder of the holiday. But it's not it that fills the house with warmth, it's you. What were his chances of meeting you? Omen or accident, but you were here—brave, strong-willed, yet enchantingly gentle—a mysterious combination of beauty in the midst of bullets. Your hands carried death too, but to him, they were home. Long lost and regained.

"Nice singin'," Joel shakes the snow off his collar as he crosses the threshold.

It's not exactly teasing, but your eyes light up in playful indignation, and he smiles back—only a little, but it's brighter than the garland wrapped around the green branches. Multicolored glass jingles as the box drops to the floor; a shimmer of hope bells.

"Brought somethin' for the Christmas tree," he explains, crossing his arms over his chest; looking at the decorations invitingly. "Thought we should decorate it somehow. Seriously, when was the last time we celebrated Christmas?"

It feels like it was in a past life, but this one is new. And he's trying like hell not to screw it up—not to put too much force on such an intimate thing with his weapon-hardened palms. Maybe his wish will be to keep it like this.