“The other is a puzzle. We’ll need to use magic for this one, though, because whoever gets the puzzle, the picture on it will be whatever their favorite Christmas memory is.”

He smiles one of those slow, happy, skin-crinkling-around-the-eyes smiles that tells me I’ve got a winner. “I like that.”

“Wonderful.”

“Spectacular.”

“Fantastic.”

“And if you were the one to get it?” he asks. “What would your favorite Christmas memory be?”

I cock my head. “I’d forgotten how much I used to love this time of year, when my siblings and I were kids. One year, we went sledding on the hill behind the movie theater, and then when we got back, Grandpa made us hot chocolate and put on Home Alone. We’d discussed how we could easily overpower any burglars, then made all the adults really mad when they found our traps. Syrup on the stairs, nails sticking out of walls, that sort of thing.”

He holds in a laugh, shoulders shaking.

“But I think that my best Christmas memory,” I go on, “is this one time when I woke up in the middle of the night. I was probably about eight years old. I was hoping to catch Santa filling up stockings, so I tiptoed downstairs, but there were no presents under the tree, nothing in the stockings. Then I looked out the living room window, and . . .” My gaze strays as I replay the scene in my mind’s eye. “The world was blue magic, the yard filled up with moonlight so bright I could see every tree, the shapes of cars parked all the way down on the streets in town. The glowing cinema sign, snow sparkling on the gazebo in the town square. There wasn’t a single sound in the whole house, because I was the only one awake.” I pause. “I think that might be the most peaceful I have ever felt, but I haven’t thought about that moment for a long time.”

He’s watching me with a half smile, and I feel wretchedly perceived, like I told him something I didn’t mean to.

I deflect. “What’s yours?”

He hands me the snow globe, and I give it a little shake. The memory playing out before us goes loose and dissolves, blossoming into Hall and me in the movie theater. We watch ourselves watching His Girl Friday for a minute, and then it becomes us watching Hall watching me watching His Girl Friday.

“Our greatest hits?” I ask, giving the snow globe another shake. Now we’re looking at ourselves baking cookies.

He takes the snow globe from me, contemplating diminutive Bettie and Hall for a moment, before sliding it away into another dimension for safekeeping. “Like my own VHS player.”

We stand up, in the bedroom once more, memories gone. For a moment, all we do is stare at each other. “Would it help if we went back in time?” I ask quietly.

He gives an almost imperceptible shake of the head. “We’d just carry it with us.”