Page 36 of Wynter's Second Chance

I smiled, though the question pulled at my heart. “I have to fulfill the promise I made to him. And that means being here for you and your dad.”

His shoulders relaxed, just barely. “What if I don’t want you here?”

“That’s your choice,” I said simply. “But if you decide that, I’ll respect it. Because loving someone means letting them make the choices they need to.”

Rory’s frown deepened, but I could see him processing my words.

“Papa was a great man,” he said quietly.

“He was,” I agreed, my voice thick with emotion. “I was with him and Taran when they brought you home. When they called you their own. Royce was so proud of you. He kept your picture tacked to his wall when we were deployed, and every time he looked at it, he’d say, ‘That’s my boy.’”

Rory wiped at his eyes quickly, like he didn’t want me to see. “Maybe… you could tell me more about him sometime.”

“I’d love that.”

I reached into the box again, pulling out a carved bear, its wood worn smooth from years of handling. “Royce had this on his desk when we were stationed together. He used to say it reminded him of strength—yours and Taran’s. We could add it too, if you want.”

Rory’s gaze dropped to the bear, then flicked back to the cap. A long moment passed before he nodded.

For the first time, Rory’s expression softened. He stepped toward the shelf, setting the cap and carved bear down carefully. “He’d like that,” he murmured.

And as Taran moved closer, standing just behind Rory, his hand resting lightly on his son’s shoulder, I felt the smallest flicker of hope that we were finding our way to each other.

Suddenly, the boy looked beyond the living room, his brows furrowing. “I’m gonna grab something from the basement.”

He disappeared into the hallway, leaving me alone with Taran.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Taran murmured, his voice low and rough.

I glanced up at him. “I wanted to. For him. For both of you.”

His gaze lingered on mine, something unspoken passing between us.

Before I could say more, Rory came back up, clutching something in both hands.

He grinned, holding up a truly horrifying craft project—a lopsided, glitter-covered snowman made of cotton balls. “Papa helped me make this when I was, like, six. He said it wasart, but I’m pretty sure he was lying.”

I snorted before I could stop myself. “Art, huh? He was generous.”

Taran leaned in for a closer look, his lips twitching. “I remember that. It lived on the fridge for way too long.”

“Yeah, the glitter would get everywhere,” Rory said with mock indignation, clearly warming to the memory. “Papa kept saying it added ‘character.’”

I laughed, the sound unexpected but welcome. “Glitter does have a way of sticking around. Kind of like Royce.”

Rory’s grin faltered for just a moment, but then he carefully placed the glittery snowman on the shelf. “He’d want it here,” he said, his voice softer now.

Taran squeezed his son’s shoulder, his touch filled with affection. “He’d love that you kept it.”

As we stood there, staring at the growing collection of memories, I felt a warmth in the room that hadn’t been there before.

Rory glanced at me, a small spark of humor still in his eyes. “You better not call itart, though. Let’s just say it’s… a conversation piece.”

I chuckled. “Deal.”

“It’s perfect,” Taran said softly.

“Yes, it is,” I said, looking at father and son. “Every piece tells a part of Royce’s story. And maybe we can keep adding to this corner. Every Christmas, we can bring something new. Something that keeps his memory alive.”

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