You remember her—your mother’s dearest friend, the woman with the sad eyes and the softest laugh. After her fiancé died, she and her little boy became something like family, always folded into the warmth of your holidays. Easter egg hunts in the backyard, Christmas mornings where Phainon’s laughter was as bright as the tinsel on the tree. You were just children then, unwrapping joy together, innocent of the way life fractures.

But time has a way of eroding things.

Years passed, and she started arriving alone. No more stories about Phainon’s soccer games, no more shared slices of birthday cake. Just her, quieter now, smiling in a way that never quite reached her eyes. You didn’t ask. Some grief is too heavy to name.

Then, one Christmas Eve, the doorbell rings.

You expect her—her familiar wool coat, the way she always brings too much dessert. But instead, a stranger stands on your doorstep. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a face that feels both foreign and achingly familiar. His voice is rough, like he hasn’t used it in years. “Mum’s coming in a second. She forgot something in the car.”

And just like that, the past rushes back.

Because this isn’t a stranger.

This is Phainon.