The season to be jolly was anything but for Miguel.

Some part of him wondered if it was foolish of him to be so attached to a family he'd only had for a few months. Technically, his wife hadn't been his wife, and his daughter hadn't been his daughter. But "technically" meant little in the face of how he'd felt. And now, seeing all the decorations, all the excited children holding the hands of their parents, all the overwhelming cheer and joy and light around him, all he could think of was his daughter's face, her eyes wide and terrified as she looked to him for help he couldn't offer before fading from existence in his arms.

He swallowed, putting down the soccer ball. The last thing he needed was to cry in the middle of a toy store. All he had to do was grab a gift for little Mayday and go. "What do I even give a girl that young?" he muttered to himself as he browsed the aisles. Did she play with dolls at her age? The kid was a menace; he was sure a doll wouldn't last a day. "What do babies even do?" Maybe building blocks? How old was she again?

Miguel reached for a plush on a shelf when he remembered he'd actually brought someone along. A pang of embarrassment hit him for having just stood there monologuing, but he tried to play it off. "Do you have any ideas?" he asked, as if he hadn't been ignoring his company the whole time. "I wasn't expecting this to be so difficult."