“I love it.”

He’s pleased. “I can’t wait to rub it in that I was right. Your grandma’s vote was for a dartboard that screams when you hit it.”

“Oh, definitely get that for me next time. But thank you, the record player is perfect. You did a terrific job with those updates—I thought it was brand new.”

“On second thought, forget what I said.” He waves an arm to get rid of the secret. “Brand new! We’ll pretend it cost me a fortune, shall we?”

“I like it even better with a history.”

“Which is why I’m your favorite in the family, I assume? Since I’m ancient.” He winks, then begins walking down the sidewalk toward the others. “Come visit more often, all right?” He points up the mountain. “Right there. Can’t miss it.”

“How does lunch every Sunday sound?”

“Fabulous. Now, I will see you later, and you be good. I’m off to go tell your grandmother she was wrong.”

“I’ll pray for your survival.”

He pauses. “You know, maybe I won’t. She might still have those darts.”

*

She Glows

Snow!

Falls upon your nose

which crinkles, and

away it goes—

Blow!

It drifts up to your hair,

and I

hold my

own breath to spare

the crown of stars that’s gathered there.

Glow!

How I wish that time would slow,

leave me here to age and grow.

I’ve got your hand,

which holds my heart,

your smile sparkling up the dark.

Oh!

Aren’t you just the starriest thing

Round and round and round I think

how wonderfully lovely it would be,

if magic didn’t make us fall apart,

to be with you here in the spring.

I take a walk that evening, a pair of skates held tight in one hand, Hall’s unfinished book of poems in the other. The sky is already darkening, church bells reverberating with five gongs. There is no difference between today and Christmas, aesthetically—the fountain in the town square still spits up diamond-bright water, illumined by the Victorian lampposts. The gazebo still glimmers with white string lights, benches empty. The ice rink remains an impossible miracle on the corner of Pools and Old Homestead, where an empty car lot ought to be. I’m so deeply glad that all of Hall’s tangible fingerprints on the town didn’t disappear along with him, like Cinderella’s coach turning back into a pumpkin. If I couldn’t cast around and find traces of Hall in everything, everywhere, that would make my heartache all the more unbearable.

Directly across the street from the skating rink, holiday music still curls from Gold Rush Bookshop’s speakers. Do you see what I see? Each ghostly syllable hits with a sharp pang.

Flurries tumble down, pressing me in the direction of the ice. It’s snowing because of weather, because it’s winter, because it’s cold and there’s precipitation. There’s no magic here anymore.

And yet.

It doesn’t feel like there isn’t magic here, either. I dither at the edge, surveying the glinting blue-white surface. I don’t have anyone to hold me up this time, to help me along. I set my book of poems on the bench, lacing up my skates.