Page 66 of Never Kiss a Krampus
“Okay, here’s a plan,” Jenna announced as we packed up the last of our inventory. The sun was beginning to set, painting the grey clouds in streaks of pink and orange. “We are going to close this stall, go get some of that disgusting fried dough you love, and then we are going to figure out how to make a Krampus realize he’s being an idiot.”
“I don’t think fried dough is the solution to this particular problem,” I said, though my stomach rumbled at the thought.
“It’s the solution to most problems.” She snapped the last latch on a display case. “Besides, we earned it. We sold almost everything.”
We had. The market had been a surprising success. The cash box was heavy, and for the first time in months, the looming deadline on the shop’s loan felt… manageable. Not solved, but manageable.
As we turned the corner towards the food stalls, a familiar figure caught my eye. Mr. Peterson, the hardware store owner, was talking animatedly with Mrs. Carmichael in front of the town’s sad, unlit Christmas tree. As we got closer, I realized they weren’t just talking; they were stringing lights. A small strand of multi-colored bulbs that they’d clearly salvaged from somewhere.
“What are you two doing?” I asked, a warmth spreading through my chest.
Mr. Peterson grunted, wrestling with a particularly stubborn bulb. “Tired of looking at this dark thing. A town without a lit tree is just… sad.”
“A town without hope is sadder,” Mrs. Carmichael added, patting his arm. “We figured a few lights were a start.”
It was more than a start. It was the exact kind of small, defiant act of joy Bastian had been talking about. My throat felt tight.
“Here,” I said, kneeling down and digging through the market leftovers in my basket. I pulled out a box of my favorite LED candle ornaments—the kind that flicker with a warm, realistic glow. “These might help. They’re battery operated.”
Mrs. Carmichael’s eyes lit up. “Oh, honey, they’re perfect.”
Jenna, bless her, didn’t say a word. She just took the other box of candles from my hands and started hanging them on the lowest branches. We worked together in the fading light, our breath fogging in the cold. We weren’t fixing the whole town. We weren’t even lighting the whole tree. But we were lighting a small corner of it. A handful of defiant, sparkling candles against the growing dark.
“I’ve got an idea,” Jenna said suddenly, her face alight. “We should start an ornament donation. Everyone brings one special ornament from home. Something meaningful. We hang it on the tree. A community tree. A tree of memories.”
It was brilliant. Simple, beautiful, and exactly the kind of thing that could bring people together.
“I love that,” I said.
“Then we do it,” Mrs. Carmichael said firmly. “I’ll announce it at the church social tomorrow.”
A small crowd had gathered to watch us, drawn by the flicker of light in the gloom. People started pulling out their phones, the little screens glowing like captured stars. Someone found a portable speaker and started playing a quiet instrumental version of “Silent Night.”
It wasn’t a big, dramatic transformation. It was small and quiet and fragile. But it was real. And as I stood back and looked at the handful of lights on the great dark tree, I felt that little seed inside me begin to sprout. The one Jenna had planted. The one that refused to believe in byproducts and accidents.
I needed to go home.
“I have to go,” I said to Jenna, my heart starting to beat a frantic, hopeful rhythm.
“Go,” she said, shooing me away. “I’ll help Mr. Peterson with this mess. Go be… not byproducty.”
I hugged her tight, then grabbed my basket and started walking, not even bothering to wait for the fried dough. Every step felt lighter, faster. I was practically running by the time I reached Main Street. The lights of my shop glowed from within, a beacon in the twilight, and I could see a silhouette through the window.
Bastian.
I fumbled with my keys, my fingers clumsy with anticipation. The bells jingled as I pushed the door open.
The shop was immaculate. The ornaments were perfectly aligned. The garlands were symmetrical. The floor was clean enough to eat off of. It was a testament to his discipline, to his focus, to everything he claimed he was losing because of me.
He was standing by the main Christmas tree, adjusting a glittering silver star so it hung at precisely the right angle. He didn’t turn around, but he knew I was there. I could feel the shift in the air, the way the tension in his shoulders changed.
“I heard the bells,” he said, his voice a low, controlled rumble. “The market was successful?”
“I sold almost everything,” I said, my breath coming a little fast. “The whole town was there. And after it closed, we lit a few candles on the town tree. Just a handful. Mr. Peterson and Mrs. Carmichael started it, and then a crowd gathered. And Jenna had this idea, this wonderful idea, that everyone should donate an ornament, something with meaning, and we’d make it a community tree.”
I was babbling, I knew. Words tumbling out in a frantic rush, trying to explain the fragile, hopeful thing I’d witnessed. I set my basket down on the counter with a thud.
“It was small,” I continued, moving towards him. “Just a few lights. But it was real. People weren’t just watching; they were participating. They were smiling. You should have seen it, Bastian. They were fighting back the dark.”
