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The church is alive with the kind of warmth that feels almost out of place in Jackson’s harsh winters. Strings of mismatched holiday lights cast a cozy glow, their colors pooling softly on the worn wooden floor. The faint murmur of conversation and bursts of laughter weave through the space, underscored by the crackle of an old record player in the corner. Someone had found a stack of holiday records, scratchy but cheerful, and they’ve been playing all night.
You’re seated near the back of the room, clutching a half-full mug of cider, watching the scene unfold. The gift exchange had started nearly an hour ago, but people are still swapping their presents casually, meandering through the space like they have all the time in the world.
Tommy’s voice rings out above the low hum, his tone tinged with good humor. “All right, folks, if you’ve still got gifts sittin’ in your packs, better hand ’em over now. Some of us got work come mornin’ and ain’t got time for y’all to be shy.”
A round of chuckles rises from the room. Someone playfully jeers that Tommy’s just cranky because Maria cut him off after two mugs of cider, earning a good-natured scowl.
It’s in the middle of this that Joel appears, walking toward you from across the room.
He’s quiet for a moment, his presence as solid and unyielding as the mountains outside Jackson. You’ve seen him around enough to know he doesn’t waste words, so his hesitation is almost startling. It’s as if he’s working out how to begin.
Finally, he clears his throat. “Uh… here.” He extends his hand, and that’s when you see it. Dark green wool, folded neatly and held out toward you. You blink at it, confused at first. A scarf.
“Oh, uh…” You set your mug down hastily, taking the bundle from him. The weight of it catches you off guard, heavier than you expected. Thick, sturdy wool, tightly knit and undeniably well-made. It’s not until you really look at it that you notice the details—little irregularities in the stitching, subtle variations that speak of human hands, not a machine.
You glance back up at him, bewildered. “You got me?”
His expression hardens slightly, like he’s bracing for you to make a joke of it. “It’s not much,” he mutters. “Just figured you might need somethin’ for the cold. Nights’ve been gettin’ worse.”
You pull the scarf a little closer, your fingers running over the stitches almost without thinking. It’s warm against your palms, and impossibly soft for something in this world. It’s… new. Not found. Not scavenged. He made this.
“You… knit me a scarf?” The question feels ridiculous even as you say it. Joel Miller—the man whose name you’ve only ever heard spoken in half-hushed tones about his skill with a rifle and his tendency to keep his distance—knits?
There’s a flicker of something—maybe annoyance, maybe embarrassment—in his eyes as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He scratches at his beard, a familiar gesture, his gaze finally lifting to meet yours. “Not much else to do with my hands these days. Didn’t think it was that complicated,” he says, a defensive edge creeping into his tone. “Just follow the damn pattern.”
You can’t stop the smile as the absurdity of it all settling like snow in your chest. You loop the scarf around your neck, the wool coarse but comfortable, the scent of it faintly earthy, like wood smoke and cedar. “It’s… really nice,” you say softly, running a finger along the uneven stitches. “I mean—thank you. I didn’t expect…”
You trail off, unsure how to finish that sentence. You’ve barely exchanged words with Joel beyond polite greetings or nods of acknowledgment. This—this feels far too deliberate, far too personal, to make sense. He not only figured out how to knit but took the time, the care, to make something this thoughtful. For you.
He shrugs, the motion stiff, his jaw working as if he wants to say something but can’t quite figure out how. “Figured you’d need somethin’ useful.”
The comment is practical, almost dismissive, but there’s a weight beneath it you can’t ignore. It’s a quiet, stubborn thing, buried under layers of bark and gristle, but unmistakably there. His gaze lingers as you adjust the scarf, and for the briefest instant, his expression softens—the tension in his jaw easing, the edge of something unspoken flickering across his face. He clears his throat, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “Anyway. Guess I’ll let you get back to it.” With that, he steps back, as if the moment has said all it needs to.
“Joel—wait,” you say, stopping him before he can turn. He hesitates, glancing back at you, his expression guarded. You lift the scarf slightly, brushing your fingers over its edge. “Really. Thank you. I’ll… I’ll make good use of it.”
His eyes linger for a moment longer, and then he nods once—a small, almost imperceptible gesture. “Good,” he says simply. Then he turns, his boots heavy against the worn floorboards as he heads toward Tommy.
You trace the edges of the knit with your fingers, the imperfections catching like tiny ridges, each one a reminder that someone—Joel—had made this, every stitch an act of effort, of care.
Maybe it’s the cider, or the lights, or just the rare buzz of joy that comes from being surrounded by people who feel like family, but for the first time in longer than you can remember, you let yourself feel it too—a quiet, stubborn kind of hope.