Page 11 of Chloe

CHLOE

The gentle crackle of the fireplace fills the living room of my grandmother’s house, casting a warm glow that dances across the walls. Outside, snowflakes drift lazily past the window, adding to the thick blanket of white already covering the ground. It’s the perfect setting for a cozy evening, but the earlier contentment I’d arrived home with is gone; replaced by an uneasy, gnawing feeling. Oliver’s store and his small town rose-colored glasses aren’t real life.

I stare at my laptop screen, the figures on my latest project blurring before my eyes. My mind keeps wandering back to yesterday’s visit to Hanks’ Department Store, to Oliver’s kind eyes and the warmth of his smile. The memory of his financial struggles tugs at something inside me, a feeling I’m not comfortable with.

With a frustrated sigh, I slam my laptop shut and push it away. This isn’t like me. I don’t worry about small-town shopkeepers or get caught up in sentimental holiday nonsense. I make smart, calculated decisions based on facts and figures, not feelings.

“Get it together, Chloe,” I mutter to myself, standing up to pace the room. The plush carpet muffles my footsteps, but it can’t quiet the turmoil in my head.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the fireplace. My dark hair is slightly disheveled, and there’s a softness in my eyes that I don’t recognize. It’s only been a few days, and I can feel myself reverting to the lonely girl I used to be, no matter how much Christmas cheer I’m being dosed with. I’ve worked too hard, built too many walls to let them crumble now.

The memory of my childhood rises unbidden. There were only a few years with my parents and then such a short time with my grandmother, a brief respite of love and stability... only to have it ripped away when she passed. Then came the constant moves, the pitying looks from teachers and classmates, the ache of never quite belonging. The pain of loss and the ache of loneliness still feel raw, even after all these years.

No, I decide, squaring my shoulders and meeting my reflection’s gaze. I can’t let myself be vulnerable again. Money is safe. Success is safe. Caring about people, getting involved in their lives—that’s a one-way ticket to heartbreak.

I march over to my phone, determined to book the first flight out of here tomorrow. Just as I’m about to dial, a knock at the door interrupts me.

For a moment, I consider ignoring it. But curiosity gets the better of me, and I open the door to find Rebecca standing on the porch, wearing a bright green beanie, her hair in a braid falling across her shoulder.

“Chloe, I’m so glad I caught you,” she says, her smile bright enough to rival the Christmas lights adorning the porch. “I wanted to invite you to the Live Nativity Scene at the church tonight. It’s a real Benton Falls tradition.”

I open my mouth to refuse, but something stops me. Maybe it’s the earnest look in Rebecca’s eyes, or maybe it’s the realization that this might be my last night in this town. Either way, I say, “Actually, that might be nice. I was thinking of leaving town tomorrow, so this could be a good way to say goodbye to Benton Falls.”

Rebecca’s smile falters for a moment, but she quickly recovers. “Leaving? Oh, but you just got here. Well, all the more reason for you to come tonight then. I promise, it’ll be magical.”

I nod, suddenly feeling a strange mix of relief and regret. “Alright, let me just grab my coat.”

As we walk towards the church, the sound of our boots crunching in the snow is accompanied by the distant chiming of bells. The air is fresh and clean, carrying the scent of fresh snow and wood smoke. Despite myself, I feel a sense of peace settling over me.

“So,” Rebecca says, breaking the comfortable silence, “what made you decide to leave so soon?”

I shrug, trying to keep my tone casual. “Oh, you know. Work never stops. I’ve got a company to run.”

Rebecca nods, but there’s a knowing look in her eyes that makes me uncomfortable. “I understand. But sometimes, taking a step back can give us a new perspective on what’s really important.”

Before I can respond, we turn a corner, and the church comes into view. The colonial building stands proud against the night sky, its red brick façade and white trim illuminated by soft lighting. Two majestic oak trees flank the cobblestone path leading to the entrance, their bare branches reaching towards the stars.

As we approach, I can hear the gentle strains of “Silent Night” floating in the air. The courtyard is transformed into a living tableau of the nativity scene, complete with costumed actors and live animals. The soft glow of lanterns casts a warm light over the scene, creating an atmosphere of reverence and wonder.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, surprised by the lump forming in my throat.

Rebecca smiles, gently guiding me closer. “Wait until you see everyone come together. It’s not just about the scene—it’s about the community.”

We join the gathering crowd, and I’m struck by the sense of warmth and belonging that seems to envelop everyone. Children giggle softly as they pet the docile sheep, while elderly couples stand hand in hand, their faces glowing with nostalgia and joy.

I spot Oliver among the crowd, dressed as one of the shepherds. Our eyes meet, and he gives me a warm smile that sends an unexpected flutter through my chest. I quickly look away, reminding myself of my decision to leave.

The performance begins, and I find myself drawn into the timeless story. The young couple playing Mary and Joseph bring a touching sincerity to their roles, and the live animals add an element of unpredictability that keeps everyone engaged.

As the story unfolds, I notice something else happening around me. People are quietly helping each other—offering blankets to those who look cold, sharing thermoses of hot cocoa, assisting an older man to a better viewing spot. It’s a subtle choreography of kindness that seems as much a part of the event as the nativity scene itself.

During a quiet moment in the performance, Rebecca leans in and whispers, “See that woman over there, handing out programs? She runs the local food bank. And the man playing Joseph? He organizes the food pantry to help the less fortunate.”

I look around with fresh eyes, suddenly seeing beyond the costumes and pageantry. These aren’t just townspeople playing roles—they’re individuals who have woven their lives together into a tapestry of community and mutual support.

A memory surfaces—my grandmother, her eyes twinkling as she helped me wrap presents for her church’s giving tree. “Christmas isn’t about what we get, Chloe,” she had said. “It’s about what we give.”

I feel a tightness in my chest, a mixture of longing and something else I can’t quite name. For a moment, I allow myself to imagine being part of something like this—not just an observer, but a participant in this web of care and connection.

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