Chapter Text
The Lost Tradition
The man has eaten alone on this night for many years.
Not always in the same house. Not always in the same country. But always on this night, with the same careful restraint. Distance has never excused him from memory.
He tells his colleagues he is unavailable. That he has obligations. He never lies outright; he allows them to assume the wrong ones. Invitations are declined well in advance. The evening is kept deliberately empty.
He does not pray.
Belief, once broken, does not mend cleanly. But ritual is not belief. Ritual is structure, and structure is survival.
He prepares the meal alone, each step performed in the correct order. He does not rush. Time behaves differently tonight. It stretches where it should not, tightens where it must. Twelve dishes, though none are abundant. Restraint is essential. Excess would be disrespectful.
The table is laid with a white cloth. Straw is hidden beneath it, pressed flat by his hands. He has done this often enough that the movements no longer require thought, yet he thinks of them anyway. Memory insists.
Bread without yeast. Fish. Grains. Honey. Apples. Each placed deliberately, each prepared in silence. The kitchen carries the faint warmth of cooking, but no comfort.
When everything is ready, he sits at the head of the table, hands folded, posture exact. The room is still except for the faint sounds of the house settling around him.
One chair is set apart.
He does not look at it immediately.
When he does, it is with care. The napkin is folded cleanly. The silverware untouched. The distance precise—not exclusion, but allowance.
Some years, this is the moment when grief sharpens. Other years, it dulls into something heavier.
Tonight, it rests somewhere between.
He does not speak her name aloud.
He has learned that names, once spoken, have a way of returning uninvited.
The sun is lowering when the knock comes.
It is unexpected enough that he stills, knife resting idle in his hand, breath held between one thought and the next. Visitors are not part of the ritual. He rises and moves to the door with measured calm, looking through the narrow window panel.
Three figures stand on his porch.
Two he recognizes immediately.
The third—
Something in her posture, in the line of her shoulders and the steadiness of her gaze, unsettles him. Not memory—memory is precise—but recognition without placement. A dissonance he does not often allow himself.
He opens the door.
“Good evening,” he says.
“Dr. Lecter,” Alana Bloom greets, stepping slightly aside. “Hannibal.”
Will Graham nods, quiet as ever.
Alana gestures toward the young woman between them. “This is Anne-Lisa Wirkus. She asked to meet you tonight. Despite the holiday.”
Hannibal’s gaze settles on her fully now.
“Oh,” he says softly. “Ms. Wirkus. Why are you not with family on a night like this?”
“I have no one to spend it with,” she replies.
Her voice does not tremble. Her gaze does not waver.
“I see,” he says, after a moment. He steps aside. “Please, come in. I was preparing Kūčios.”
“Am I disturbing your family night, Doctor?”
“No,” he answers. “I observe the holiday even without my family.”
“That is good to know.”
They enter. The house receives them without protest.
Alana clears her throat. “Ms. Wirkus wished to inform you of something. She believes you may have known a woman—Onna—approximately twenty years ago.”
Hannibal stills.
“I have known a woman by that name,” he replies.
Anne exhales, a subtle release of tension.
“Onna Wirkus was my mother,” she continues. “She had a brief relationship with a young artist while still living in Lithuania. Before she married. Before she emigrated. She became pregnant before the wedding, but did not realize it until afterward. She once said I was fortunate—to be born just days before the due date.”
She hesitates, then continues. “Before she passed, she gave me a letter. She wanted me to know who my father was. She said I had inherited his God-given gifts.”
Hannibal takes a step back.
Now he sees it—the familiar curve of bone, the eyes, the structure beneath the skin. Memory sharpens with unwelcome precision. Onna’s poetry. Her ink-stained hands. The way she spoke of life as something meant to be observed, not owned.
“She told me you were a medical student,” Anne says. “But that your hands were meant for much more. She called you His Reflection.”
Silence stretches.
“Are you saying,” Hannibal asks carefully, “that you believe you are my daughter?”
“Yes,” Anne replies, bowing her head slightly. “I understand if—”
“Would you like to share a traditional family meal?” Hannibal interrupts.
The question surprises all of them.
“That would be an honor,” Anne says quietly.
Will watches Hannibal closely. The man’s face remains composed, but something has shifted behind his eyes. Later, over lunch with Beverly Katz, Will will say—only once—that he thought he saw tears there.
“Will,” Hannibal says, turning, “won’t you join us?”
“You consider Alana and me family?” Will asks cautiously. “I wish Abigail were here. It would make the table feel more complete.”
“I wish she were here as well,” Hannibal replies. “The food is already growing cold.”
They move to the dining room.
Anne pauses, uncertain where to sit. Her gaze drifts briefly to the chair set apart, then away. Without comment, she takes the seat nearest to Hannibal instead.
He notices.
The meal unfolds with deliberate quiet. Hannibal explains the tradition only as much as courtesy requires. Will and Alana listen respectfully and take little, leaving more for father and daughter. The dishes are modest. The silence intentional.
At the end of the meal, Will and Alana prepare to leave.
Anne hesitates.
Hannibal opens his arms first.
She steps into the embrace, careful, tentative. She smells his cologne—expensive, restrained—and something quieter beneath it.
“Tėti,” she whispers.
“My daughter,” he replies in Lithuanian.
After the door closes behind the others, Hannibal returns to the table. The chair set apart remains empty. The napkin is still neatly folded.
He extinguishes the lights and ascends the stairs.
“Merry Christmas, Mischa,” he murmurs before sleep finally takes him.
For the first time in many years, his dreams are mercifully absent.