Page 21 of Wynter's Second Chance

I set the phone down, still grinning. The day felt a little brighter, a bit lighter.

That evening, I drove up to Taran’s place, the house glowing against the chill of early December twilight. Rory bounded outthe front door, bundled in a red scarf and jacket, eyes bright with excitement.

“Hello, Wynter!” His voice rang out before he even reached the car, and with that familiar burst of energy, he jumped into the back seat, his breath fogging up the windows almost instantly. “The lights are going to be awesome this year!” He rambled on, practically vibrating with excitement. I smiled to myself. He was still a little wary around me the last time we spoke, but there was something in the way he spoke now, more comfortable, more familiar. I wasn’t sure when it had started, but I could feel the walls between us slowly coming down.

Taran followed, a calmer presence but no less welcoming. He offered me that quiet smile of his—the one that made the creases by his eyes stand out more than usual—and I caught a spark there, something different. Something happy.

"All set?"

"Yeah, just about," Taran said, adjusting his scarf, his eyes bright. He looked… lighter. Maybe it was just me, but he seemed more at ease than I remembered.

We headed toward the town square, the streets already lit up with strings of lights weaving between lampposts and storefronts. There was no lingering ache of guilt or pull of regret. It was just the sounds and sights of a December evening, crisp and full of life. A breath of air I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

Rory was still chattering away from the backseat, excited about the Christmas lights, pointing out everything from reindeer to glittering icicles. It was easy to let his energy wash over me, easy to get lost in his enthusiasm.

When we arrived in the square, we piled out and started walking among the stalls—each one decked with garlands, ribbons, and little twinkling lights. The air was filled with the scent of pine, roasted chestnuts, and fresh cider. I could almost taste the sweetness in the air. Rory tugged at my sleeve, hisfingers cold but insistent, pointing out handmade ornaments and small wooden toys at the various stands. He was so full of wonder, like he was seeing everything for the first time.

“Look! Dad, Wynter, look at this one!” Rory’s voice was full of that contagious excitement, and for a second, I found myself smiling before I even realized it. I glanced at Taran, watching him as he listened intently to Rory, the warmth between them undeniable. He was watching his son with something that I couldn’t quite place—maybe pride, maybe love. I’d always seen that love between them. The same love that, somehow, had managed to survive even the hardest of times.

And Royce… Royce should have been here, seeing this. He should have known how lucky he was to have a man like Taran beside him, raising a son as bright and full of life as Rory. I didn’t need to say it out loud to know that I missed him, the way he used to drag all of us out to these kinds of things. He would joke about my terrible singing and tell me I should just clap along instead of embarrassing myself by trying to join the carols. I laughed at the thought, a soft chuckle that didn’t quite reach my chest. Even after all this time, I could still feel Royce’s absence—sharp, like an old scar that wasn’t fully healed.

But tonight, standing here with Taran and Rory, I felt something else. A quiet, almost fleeting sense of peace. A hope. A wish, maybe, that I could be part of this. That I could find a place in this small family and make it my own. I watched Taran share a laugh with Rory, his son looking up at him with those wide eyes that saw everything in the world as an adventure.

I couldn’t help wondering if Royce was watching us, if he saw Taran’s laughter and Rory’s wonder. Would he want this for me? Would he want me to be part of this—of them?

I didn’t know the answer.

And then the carolers began to sing. Their voices—rich and warm—echoed through the square. Clara Donovan, theenergetic and passionate organizer of our town’s annual holiday events, led them, her voice high and clear, and the men harmonized in soft baritones. The snow-dusted streetlights flickered on as the first few notes of “Silent Night” filled the air, drawing people in from all sides.

I couldn’t help but smile, feeling the magic of it. The air smelled like pine and winter, and even the cold seemed to hum with something hopeful. The carolers’ voices wrapped around the square, pulling the town together, a warmth radiating from the music. The crowd swayed, some joining in, their voices blending with the carolers’—a beautiful, imperfect chorus.

I glanced at Taran, his eyes lit up by the festive glow of the streetlights. His hand brushed mine, and it was like a small spark passed between us. Did he feel it too?

The music swelled as the final verse of the carol began, and a hush fell over the crowd, all of us wrapped in the magic of the moment.

“Hey, look!” Rory nudged me, grinning up at the massive Christmas tree in the center of the square as it flickered to life.

It stood tall and proud, a giant spruce wrapped in strings of colored lights, each one glowing bright against the fading twilight. Ornaments of all shapes and sizes hung from its branches—glittering snowflakes, stars, and homemade crafts that had the unique charm of the town’s annual tradition.

Taran’s voice was low, but I heard the warmth in it as he nudged me with his shoulder. “There’s a stand where you can make your own ornaments. Rory, want to?”

Rory’s face lit up like the Christmas tree itself, and before Taran had even finished the sentence, he was bouncing on his toes. “Yeah! Want to, Wynter?”

I chuckled, being swept up in the excitement. “Sure thing.”

We made our way over to the stand, the sounds of laughter and the carolers’ voices still floating around us. There weretables lined with blank ceramic ornaments and paints, and I took one of the small, smooth baubles, feeling the cool weight of it in my hand. Rory immediately dove in, his tongue peeking out in concentration as he began painting, his tiny brush strokes quick and sure. I smiled as I watched him, remembering what it was like to be that excited about a simple thing—just creating for the sake of creating.

Taran worked quietly beside me, his strokes smooth and methodical, a little frown of concentration tugging at his brow. I glanced down at my own ornament, unsure what to do. A tree? A star? I ended up with a lopsided, unrecognizable shape that I decided to callartistic interpretation.

When Rory finished, he held his ornament up with pride. “I’m putting this on the tree every year from now on. Maybe someday I’ll have a whole set.”

Taran’s eyes softened, his gaze lingering on Rory’s creation. “Sounds like a plan. We can add to it each year.”

“Family tradition,” I murmured before I could stop myself.

Taran looked at me, his eyes widening just slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. I wasn’t sure why I’d said it, but the words felt true. There was something about this moment, standing together, creating something that would last through the years. Something that made me want to stay, to be part of it, to make this—them—my family.

We finished our ornaments, each one carefully wrapped and tagged to be baked in the kiln.

---