The Christmas We Forgot to End

December descended like a thief in snow, wrapping the small town of Ashwood in a cloak of white. For Emma, it was the kind of winter that smelled like fresh cookies and forgotten dreams. She’d spent the morning baking with her grandmother, the same rituals they’d performed every year since she was a child – sugar cookies cut into stars, hot cocoa laced with nutmeg, the scent of orange and clove wafting from the simmering potpourri.

But this Christmas felt different.

It was the first without Liam.

They’d met in Ashwood’s only café five winters ago, on a night much like this – snow swirling like confetti outside, café lights casting a spell inside. He’d ordered a black coffee. She’d ordered a mistake – hot chocolate with extra marshmallows. They’d collided over a misplaced napkin, laughed, and the universe had narrowed to a pinpoint where only they existed.

Four Christmases they’d chased the snow together – sledding down Frost Hill, drinking from mugs with steam that smelled like promises, writing silly vows on snowflakes that melted by dawn.

But this December, Liam was gone.

He’d left in October, vanishing like a thread pulled from a sweater – quietly, leaving the edges frayed. No goodbye. No explanation. Just a note on her pillow: _I need to find what I lost._

Emma hadn’t heard from him since.

The afternoon drifted white and hollow as she walked Ashwood’s streets, dodging snowflakes that clied to her lashes like tiny messengers. The Christmas tree in the town square glowed – a beacon for families, couples, anyone who still believed in _together_. She’d avoided it all week, but now her feet led her there anyway.

Under the boughs heavy with snow, she found a bench. A forgotten ornament lay broken on the ground – a glass heart shattered like her own had been. She picked up a shard, cold against her palm.

_Did he break me like this?_

The thought stitched a seam of pain. She hadn’t cried in weeks, but now the ache felt like it might spill.

“Emma?”

A whisper. A hand on her shoulder.

She turned. It was Liam.

His eyes – the same, but different. Tired. Hungry. As if he’d walked the length of winter to find her.

“Liam?” Her voice broke like the glass.

He knelt in the snow. “I lost my way.”

The words hung. Emma’s pulse roared.

“I looked for you everywhere,” he said. “In the hills we trekked. The cafés we laughed in. Even in the quiet parts of myself. Couldn’t find what I needed without you.”

Snowflakes danced between them like lost chances.

“I wrote it wrong,” he said. “The note. I meant _I need to find what we lost_.”

Emma’s fingers trembled. He caught them in his, cold but steady.

“Can we rewrite it?” he asked. “This Christmas. Us.”

The snow paused. The world narrowed.

She leaned. He rose. Their lips met like snowflakes – fragile, inevitable.

Under Ashwood’s tree, they rebuilt the heart.

Later, in the café (their spot by the window), Liam pulled out a tiny box.

“Forgot this,” he said. “Meant to give it Christmas Eve.”

Inside lay a silver star. “For every year we chase the snow,” he whispered.

Emma smiled. The ache dissolved.

That night, Ashwood’s streets whispered secrets – of love, of loss, of chances rewritten. In the square, the broken heart ornament lay mended with gold, glowing under lights.

For Emma and Liam, Christmas hadn’t ended. It had reset.