Chapter Text

A Day at a Time

December 25th.

Morning crept in through the Georgian windows, the thin winter light making the gardens feel rubbed down to soft edges. It was a beautiful view, the greens and browns muted under the sky.

River sat at his grandfather’s room table, right hand resting at one of the corners where the wood was slightly chipped. The smell of the toast the maids had brought made his stomach growl, but he didn't eat. The OB was stirring his tea, hand trembling slightly around the spoon. River watched him without meaning to, chin propped on the other hand.

“You’re frowning,” David said suddenly, not looking up. “You always frowned as a boy.”

River blinked. “I’m not—”

“You had that look,” his grandfather interrupted gently. “Whenever you are worried about things you can't change.”

River let the silence settle. It made all the sense in the world that even now —when he was drifting away, when River was losing him in slow motion— his grandfather knew him better than anyone.

A younger version of himself would’ve deflected, made a joke or ignored the weight behind the words. Today, the impulse flickered but didn’t win.

“I’m fine,” he said, softer. “Just… thinking about life.”

David hummed. “Dangerous habit, that.”

They sat in companionable quiet. Now and then, the OB squinted as if trying to place something in River's face, and River, in turn, couldn't help but wonder if his grandfather was trying to remember his age, who he reminded him of, or the missing memories. River felt the ache of it, too familiar and raw.

An hour had gone by when River collected their plates and left them aside for the maid, while the OB watched him with eyes misted by age.

“Your grandmother would be proud,” he murmured.

River swallowed. “Yeah. Well.”

"I mean it."

River took a sip of the tea, which had been growing colder in the elegant porcelain cup, while his grandfather went on. Old anecdotes, remembrances of a lifetime in the service, snippets of a happier life with Rose. Some painful ones —to River's surprise— of Isobel and the decisions that had shaped his childhood.

Even after the light had grown brighter, bathing the table and their hand, River didn’t rush him, didn’t correct him when he mixed up timelines or repeated himself. Every slip hurt, but the hurt didn’t swallow him this time.

Later, as River checked his phone, a missed call glowed from an unknown number. He frowned, thumb hovering, but the OB reached out, fingers brushing his wrist.

He set the phone down and returned his attention to his grandfather.

“River?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you’re here, my boy.”

“Me too.”

The cemetery could’ve passed for a park when people didn’t look too closely. Frost clung to the grass in pale patches, and the trees stood in tall, quiet rows like sentries.

Louisa walked slowly, scarf wound tight around her neck. She clutched the envelope tigh in her hands, while she kept moving, following a path known by heart.

She stopped in front of the gravestone.

Min’s name, the dates, the short line beneath — these were words that always seemed inadequate to Louisa, but that she had no place, no real saying in.

She crouched down, gloved hand brushing the crystallised frost off the top. Her breath caught, a small sound in the stillness.

Behind her, Shirley waited, trying not to intrude. She lingered several steps back, pretending to examine a tree, shoulders hunched awkwardly in her coat.

Louisa rested her palm against the stone. “Hi,” she whispered.

A few quiet moments passed, full of everything she didn’t say. She opened the envelope ith trembling hands and took the sheet of paper out.

It took her several minutes, sorrounded by silence and the cold air blowing through the branches, to finish reading it. Then, she straightened, wiped her eyes once with her sleeve, and turned.

Shirley met her gaze. “Ready?”

Louisa nodded. “Yeah.”

They both looked up at the sky, witness to their short but meaningful ritual. Louisa knew, she had said many times even, that you could only move on. You lived and people, feelings, experiences would fall behind. But today, she had left that aside for a while. She had decided to speak, and to feel. To mourn.

And even more to her surprise, she wasn't doing that alone.

After a pause, she spoke again. “Now… the next one.”

Shirley slipped her hands into her pockets and fell into step beside her. They didn’t talk again until they walked past the gates.

They just stolled through the cold morning together, heading toward St. Pancras Gardens, towards another grave and another set of memories.

Catherine’s flat held the warmth that comes from radiators pushed slightly beyond their limit, making the windows fog. Her little grey kitten darted across the living room, lopsided gait making him look determined rather than clumsy.

She watched him for a long moment, tucked under a blanket. Her body ached from the week's work, the worry of sneaking around and the anxiety of opening the doors of her home to people she cared about, but still felt, in many ways, like strangers.

However, something about the room, and this Christmas Day, felt right, more lived-in. There was a new joy, one that she didn't dare to name yet.

She remembered Lamb’s words the night before:

“You're satisfied, I imagine.”

“I am.”

“So, does this mean you're ready to go live your cat-lady life? Leave your spook days behind?”

“I was never a spook.”

“Oh, but you are. You love it. The action. The thrill.”

She’d shrugged.

“You’ll miss it.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Jackson. I just adopted a cat.”

“First, a cat. Then a flat with too many vases. Next thing you know, you’re retiring and knitting socks for Cartwright.”

“You love calling me old.”

“Well, you love cosplaying as the block’s sweet grandma. But you’re not.”

She’d said nothing.

“Adopt all the cats you want, Catherine. Feed these orphaned nitwits if it makes you happy. But I know who you are.”

“Sure, Jackson,” she had sighed.

A soft knock broke the quiet and her thoughts. Her neighbour stood outside, wrapped in a puffy jacket and holding a small tin.

“Merry Christmas, Catherine,” she said brightly. “Thought I’d bring you some biscuits.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind.”

They exchanged a few pleasantries—weather, noise from the upstairs flat, and the state of the neighbourhood. Then Catherine closed the door, leaned against it, and exhaled.

The kitten wobbled back toward her, meowing like she’d been gone a year. She scooped him into her arms and settled onto the sofa again.

Her phone was on the cushion beside her. The screen lit up with the last photo she had taken at last night’s gathering: River awkwardly holding a glass of wine, with that face that seemed to be challenging the camera to a duel; Louisa, smiling in that small, rare way of hers; and a blur on the right that was unmistakably Shirley trying to dodge being in the picture at all.

Catherine stared at it. She closed the gallery and let the kitten curl on her legs. Outside, Christmas Day moved quietly onward, drifting between melancholy and warmth.

A strange year, she thought.

But not a lonely one.

Not a lonely one.