Once I stand in front of them, I take a better look at the two older adults before quickly meeting Tall Guy’s eyes. It’s the first time I get to see him upright, and while I knew he seemed tall, it’s nothing compared to standing next to him. I’m five eight, and I almost need to tilt my head back to look at him. Thankfully, his face doesn’t show any signs of recognition—not that I would’ve expected it to. We didn’t speak much that night months ago. I don’t even know why I remember him. Again, memory is a strange, strange thing.

“I’m Aaron,” Tall Guy says as he steps forward, hand extended.

Aaron. After all these months, I finally know his name. It suits him.

“Wren,” I answer as I grab his large hand and shake it. It feels so surreal, to be here, acting professional with him as if I didn’t meet him while in a state so unlike my real self. If he’d remembered, I would’ve been humiliated to my core.

He takes a step back, then gestures toward the tiny woman. “This is my mom, Martina.” I shake her hand too as he says, “And this is my dad, Dennis.”

The man’s handshake is weak. Too weak for someone of his stature. Still, he maintains my gaze the whole time.

After taking a step back, I say, “Nice to meet you all. Shall we?”

Tall Guy—Aaron—nods once, then leads the way toward a large rustic house made of chestnut-colored wooden logs, smoke billowing out of a chimney. The place fits with the whole winter cottagecore vibe they have going on here. I walk behind Martina, who keeps a hand on Dennis’s back as he pushes his walker through the not-so-practical gravel entryway. The air is crisp and cold, and I hug my thin suede wrap-up coat tighter around me.

Once we get inside, the smell of firewood and fresh cookies fills my nose, and I can’t help but hum low. Christmas carols play softly in the background. From the foyer, we can see all the way through the kitchen to a large living room housing a woodstove and brown leather couches covered in throw blankets.

I can’t imagine this place during summer. It’s like it must be inhabited by a perpetual Christmas spirit.

Aaron leads us through the kitchen, with pots hung to the ceiling over a square wooden island, then turns to his left and stops once we reach what I assume is the dining room, a gigantic table made of a big slab of tree in the middle. I take a seat facing the three of them, then grab a notepad and my favorite black-ink pen out of my leather briefcase.