Archive of Our Own

Elizabeth had no idea what to do when she received the soul-crushing news of her infertility.

She was immobile in her chair until she sipped the water a nurse offered her earlier. It was warm in her mouth. With a racing mind, it was hard to gather her thoughts. All she could grasp was how wearying the journey was that led her here.

Hope already dwindled by the time the appointment was scheduled. Elizabeth marked the months of her menstrual cycle without telling Tom at first. She told herself to be patient, that God had a plan for her, and stress was not helping. Each cycle came and went silently, but not without plunging her in the chest with grief, and abandoning her in a pool of her blood.

They had been trying for nearly two years. 

Initially, it was infused with play and romance. They laughed in bed beneath Christmas lights they were too lazy to take down. Tom jested about needing a bigger house and that the nursery would be painted blue or pink because "surprises are better." Elizabeth smiled and let herself believe it was inevitable. Some couples just struggled. That didn’t equate to impossibility. Her own parents endured a decade-long wait before she arrived in their thirties. She was a miracle child. Her existence was proof that miracles did not follow schedules.

So she entertained the jokes and even played along with her husband.

Until the jokes soured.

Friends announced pregnancies at barbecues and birthday parties, passing ultrasound photos across tables while Elizabeth perfected the art of smiling without letting it reach her eyes. Every year with no baby since their marriage hit harder than the last. She envisioned motherhood so vividly ever since she was ten, picking out names for her dolls and crocheting blankets with yarn she found under her bed. She always favored an April birth because then the child would be big enough to dress by Christmas time. They would be swaddled in a red flannel and beside a stocking embroidered with their name. The fantasies drifted when she was still not pregnant. 

Tom never voiced it, but the shift between them was so obvious that he did not need to. He lingered over childhood photographs. He gravitated toward families at social events. He held her hand less. He said “I love you" less. Silence was the third party in their bed after another failed month, growing hungrier each time. 

That was when Elizabeth knew she had to make an appointment. "There might be something wrong with me." She confessed to him, and she felt sick, "I don't know. We should check."

Tom was reluctant. Just like her, he craved the idea that time would suffice, that desire could manifest reality. Confirmation would be their undoing, but so would be indulging themselves in illusions. Easter was approaching Germany—the month of her longed-for, sweet April baby.

So they went, the doctors evaluated her, and the results were delivered a month later. Elizabeth could not have children. 

She had no right to be frustrated at her doctor, for he offered her the very thing she paid for. Her money was spent on truth, not comforting lies, but in that moment, she wished for the latter. 

The glass cowboot ornament she purchased last Christmas would have to be relegated to the back of a drawer.

Elizabeth stumbled into the waiting area. Tom was hunched over, his shaking leg vibrating the metal frame of his chair. The overheated air amplified her dizziness as she approached him.

Tom looked up when he heard her footsteps. His attempt to smile faltered upon observing her state. “Hey, how did it... go…”

Don't tell me, she heard him think.

She would not be able to tell him anyway. Not with the painful lump that constricted her throat. The elastic band between them was about ready to snap, and she shook her head, unable to muster the strength to voice her despair. 

"Did the doctor say...?"

"He..." She could not say it slowly. She could not explain the whole process. To do so would be to relive the doctor's calm delivery, as if just one sentence did not shatter her entire world. But that was their job, right? She ripped off the bandage. "I'm infertile."

The suffocating air vanished, but the hum of the lights pressed harder against her ears. She could not hear. Tom's face varied from shock to confusion, then to a deep, unsettling disappointment. He dragged his fingers through his hair, pacing in place for a second before stopping again, “We can't just accept that. There are options, right? Treatments? We can look into IVF or other avenues."

"We can," her voice trembled, "But that's going to take so much time. And... right now, I don't think I'm ready for that."

"No, I'm not saying right now, honey. I'm just..." He exhaled sharply. "You know I always pictured having a son. Someone who looks like me and carries on the family name. It's hard to imagine that's not going to happen."

But she wanted a son too. Or a daughter maybe. “I’m sorry, Tom. I didn’t want this for us either..." She hesitated before she forced herself to continue. "But what if we consider adoption? There are so many kids who need a home.” 

Tom’s expression hardened, just slightly, but it was enough. He shook his head. “Elizabeth, adoption feels… I don't know— not the same? I wanted my own kid, my blood. And, with the troubled lives those children go through, they'll certainly come with some baggage. What if we can't connect with them?“

Elizabeth wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly aware of how exposed she felt standing here. She looked around the waiting room. Nobody was looking, but they could be eavesdropping. Why did she force him to have such an intimate conversation in public? What was she doing? She told herself to say one more thing, and then they would leave. She dropped her voice to a whisper and leaned closer to Tom, “I get it, but that's why it matters. We could still love a child who needs us, and give them a good life that they otherwise wouldn't have."

"Maybe... Let's just go home, and we can discuss it further." Clearly, he was having the same concerns. He wanted out of the public space. 

Except they did not discuss it further when they arrived home. Elizabeth reached for an embrace, but Tom stormed to the living room to retrieve a cigar. He brushed past her to smoke outside, as if she were invisible, as if she was not his wife.

She threw her purse on their bed and wept until her eyes bled.

The bedroom was dark, for the streetlights could not penetrate through the thick curtains like they could from the sitting or dining room. Elizabeth lay in her bed, tossing and turning, the sheets tangling around her like a shroud. 

A deep sigh escaped her. Ironically, above the bed was a framed print of the Virgin Mary, a relic from her mother's house, and a constant reminder of motherhood. It was literally impossible for dear Mary, and pregnancy was not ideal, yet God still gave her a baby. It felt as if Elizabeth’s presence was blasphemy.

Tom's breathing beside her was low and heavy, the kind of sleep that came from exhaustion rather than peace. She envied the power he possessed to have his eyes closed for more than five seconds.

"I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, Mrs. Springer, but you are infertile."

How could she burden him with this? The weight of her sorrow felt too immense to share, so she kept it locked inside as the days rolled by. God knows all that was going through Tom's mind. He had barely spoken to her in the past few months. She could not tell you the last time they kissed.

It was killing her.

She turned to the crucifix on her nightstand. Tom carved it a long time ago, when they were still young, and it was the first thing they hung in their new house. It felt heavy upon sight. Like she could feel it on her back. The Lord was burning holes through her head from above.

That had her resume her prayers. She grabbed the crucifix and held it to her chest, using her other hand to cross herself slowly.

”In the name of The Father, and of The Son, and of The Holy Spirit. Amen.”

The words did not stop the ache eating her alive and infecting her with disease. Her throat was sore from crying, but she kept whispering, “Hail Mary, full of grace…” she wavered halfway through. She pressed her lips together until she could finish the prayer without breaking completely. She followed it with an Our Father, the cadence steady even as her thoughts scattered.

When the formal words ran out, desperate ones rushed in. “God. I don’t know how to do this. I’ve tried to be patient. I trusted You. I thought if we waited long enough, if we wanted it badly enough, to show You our devotion, that You would bless us with a gift.”

She squeezed her burning eyes. She quickly wiped her tears, hoping that some did not seep into the sheets. She was being selfish, but it did not stop her from continuing her prayer, “I don’t need it to be easy. I’ll take sickness, exhaustion, fear, anything. You would strengthen my heart and soul. Please don’t let this be the end of our story. You know I have wanted a child since I was one myself. Is that so wrong?”

She pictured a Christmas morning again, like she always did when hope was getting to her. She curled onto her side, pulling the blanket close to make herself smaller before Him, cross still to her chest.

“Mary, you know what it is to be chosen. You know what it is to carry life when it seems impossible. Please. Pray for us. Pray for me.”

Her fingers traced the sign of the cross again, her touch shakier. She lay there long after the prayers ended, staring into the dark, waiting for comfort that did not come. There was only the weight of hope refusing to die. It pressed against her chest like a heartbeat. It became her. Her hands were flat against her stomach because, to her, there was still something there to protect. 

Prayer before bed was always the routine, but the blessing for a child reoccurred within her prayers. Every single night. Every single month.

Elizabeth thought of her prayers as the congregation rose to sing. Her voice moved with the others, but her eyes lingered on the first purple candle on the Adventskranzanz. It was lit that morning during Mass, the flame small but determined against the cold air of the sanctuary. Looming over it were stained glass windows of Archangel Michael casting down Satan and the birth of Jesus Christ. The Lord was still burning holes through her head. 

Elizabeth carried those images with her as she slipped into her coat, the smell of incense clinging to the wool and her brain.

Outside, the November breeze watched over the town, with the sky low and colorless, pressing down on rooftops and shoulders. The town was already preparing itself for Christmas. As Tom drove them slowly back home, the roads damp with last night's rain, they passed by familiar storefronts dressed in early Advent restraint like the garlands and stars on windows. The Caritas shop on the corner had already set out a Nativity scene with all their faces painted calm and expectant. 

At the next light, a young man stood outside a charity shop, one she had never seen before. His blonde hair escaped beneath a knit cap, and his cheeks were red from the cold. He was young, definitely no older than eighteen, and he was setting down boxes. Upon noticing the line of cars, he lifted a gloved hand and waved. It was such an open gesture that could have been for anyone, but his blue eyes had stared directly at her. Elizabeth waved back before they passed. Everything happened so fast, she had no way of knowing whether he acknowledged it or not. 

Further along the drive, she saw wooden stalls assembled in the square for the Weihnachtsmarkt, their roofs like waiting crowns. She imagined them finished with their strings of lights and steam rising from mugs of Glühwein.

Last year, she and Tom walked hand in hand between the stalls, talking about how next year might be different, how there would be a stroller, maybe, and smaller mittens tucked into her coat pocket.

She could not help but wallow as she lit the first candle in her dining room. There was supposed to be a child in her arms, laughing as Tom lit the candle. Or the baby could even be crying.

Oh, what she would do to hear any baby sound. But that was impossible because she would never have a baby. 

Now, standing in the narrow hallway of their house, Elizabeth pulled her wool coat tighter around herself. It had been a few days since Advent, and she thought of the charity stores and workshops that worked together, and how she, in previous years, ignored their asking for help. The Springers were a pretty well-off couple with impressive incomes, but neither of them cared for a long time on donating to charity. However, since the devastating news of infertility that happened in April, she found her humility. Maybe it was God's calling.

So she called them.

Tom sat in the sitting room, the newspaper open in his lap. In front of him, on the coffee table, stood a carved wooden nativity scene he was working on for the church. Mary was gazing down at nothing, eternally young and holding her Son. Joseph held his hands over his heart. The angels surrounded them with the promise of protection. 

Elizabeth cleared her throat. "Tom, I'm going to help downtown set up the Christmas markets. They'll be opening soon."

"That's nice, honey." He stood and crossed to her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. The action was a little too quick to feel genuine, but she shook the feeling off and smoothed down her coat, as if it would smooth away everything else.

Before she left, she lingered by the door, her hand on the brass knob, hoping for something more. Like maybe a question about when she would be home, an offer to join her, or even just a proper goodbye. But Tom had already returned to his chair with refilled coffee to the newspaper that was not being read.

With a heavy heart, she walked down the stairs and toward her car. The cold bit at her cheeks, turning them pink. In the courtyard, Mrs. Zimmermann was hanging a star of straw and ribbon on her door with "Stille Nacht" playing on some speakers. She waved, and Elizabeth managed a smile in return.

As she drove toward town, the streets grew busier with preparations. Men hoisted garlands of spruce across lampposts. Children pressed their noses against bakery windows where she knew rows of golden Christstollen sat cooling (she did that too as a kid). The church bells carried on the wind that smelled of the falling snow.

Christmas was coming, whether she was ready or not. And perhaps, she thought as she parked across the charity shop, perhaps losing herself in the work for others' joy might be the only way to survive the season.

Elizabeth locked the car and crossed the frozen street. A wooden sign with white lights along the awning hung above the shop's door, freshly painted despite the cold:

HOFFNUNG & HÄNDE

Inside was toasty with the coffee smell. Most of the interior had a dark, rusty look of a cabin, but she felt as if she were in warm chocolate. Voices overlapped with the cheerful music that played and the thud of crates being set down. Boxes labeled Kerzen, Strohsterne, and Handarbeiten were stacked neatly against the wall. 

Before Elizabeth could fully take the place in, a middle-sized woman with short dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses hurried toward her, wiping her hands on her apron. “Mrs. Springer! I’m so glad you called us. We’re so happy to have you!”

Relief washed through Elizabeth at her friendly voice, “Thank you for letting me help,” she said, though she immediately wondered if she sounded too eager. The doubt faded as the woman came closer, shaking her hand intensely. They were both just as eager.

“I’m Greta,” she said, steering her further inside, away from the cold door. “We can always use extra hands this time of year, especially now, with the markets opening so soon.” She raised her voice. “Everyone— This is Elizabeth Springer. She'll be helping us through Advent.”

A chorus of greetings followed with smiles and nods. Someone handed her a chipped mug of coffee without asking, and she accepted it gratefully, wrapping her hands around the warmth. 

“There is a lot you can do here. Some of the ladies are wrapping the presents. Some of the men are carving wooden figurines for the children.” Greta gestured toward the far end of the room, where several tables were set up with wrapped presents and bows. “Why don’t you start there? We’re assembling gift bundles for the children’s stalls. Candles, sweets, small toys. It’s quiet work.”

Quiet work. Perfect. Elizabeth nodded. “That'll be great.”

She set her coat and joined the table. The surface was covered in a jolly mess of cellophane bags, red and green ribbon, gingerbread hearts wrapped in foil, miniature wooden trains, and beeswax candles.

The task was simple enough: gather a small collection of items into a cellophane bag, tie it with a ribbon, and set it aside. She picked up a bag and began to fill it methodically with all the elements. When the bag was full, she reached for a roll of red ribbon. She carefully measured out a length, then attempted to tie it around the neck of the bag, but the ribbon was stiff and unforgiving around her hands. She tried again, pulling the ends tighter. The bow remained to simmer beneath the surface. She tugged a little harder. Then harder. She began to feel the tension in the ribbon grow…

“Careful with those,” a gentle voice uttered. “That ribbon is tricky. It’ll break if you pull too hard and you’ll burn your hands. I broke three earlier.” He had a bandage on his palm to prove himself.

Elizabeth looked up. It was the young man from the street. Blonde hair, though it shone brighter. Same knit cap, though now pushed back. Same blue eyes, but more magical than ever in the physical presence. 

An embarrassed blush crept up to her neck. "Thanks. They're just hard to tie."

"I know. It's awful. I can help you." He paused, silently asking for permission to demonstrate. 

"Please." She scooted over to make space for him. 

The boy sat down, and the air shifted with his proximity, bringing with it the clean scent of sawdust. He picked up another length of ribbon. "The ribbon is stiff because of the sizing. First, fold the ribbon in half lengthwise, creasing it firmly. Then, unfold it and fold each edge in to meet the center crease, like you're making paper airplane wings. Crease those folds too. That softens the fibers and makes it easier to manipulate." He then wrapped the softened ribbon around the bag. "This is the part that gets everyone frustrated. When you tie the knot, hold the ends tight, but pinch gently on each side to tighten it, instead of yanking it to the side. That prevents it from snapping." He tied a neat, perfect bow around the neck of the bag with ease. "I know it sounds obvious, but it made me feel better seeing a visual presentation my first day.”

"It helped a lot, actually. Thank you."

"Anytime. Once you master that, you can do the fancy ones. I always make the golden star bows." He gestured to the presents that lay near the entrance ready to be picked up. Sure enough, in golden ribbon, the bow was in the shape of a star. Elizabeth watched, mesmerized, as he showed her how to make multiple shapes.

He smiled a perfect smile as he set the bows down and reached into the pocket of his worn jacket. In that pocket, there was a wooden figurine, and he set it on the table between them. The figure was no bigger than her palm, sanded smooth and warm in tone from tree bark. It was the body of a little girl, her dress flaring at the hem, her hair carved into curtain bangs that framed her face. Her head was tilted upwards, her expression one of quiet wonder.

"I've seen those before." She said. She really had. The doll stood on shelves in the markets, painted snow white and blonde with a pink dress. Her cousin had one lying above the fireplace. The one she possessed was a little different, though. It still had the pink dress, but it had a ponytail with curtain bangs and a red bow. She looked so sweet. Elizabeth felt like she knew her. The specific doll he set down looked to be a more mature version, with her height taller and her hair down, but still wearing a dress. Elizabeth remembered Greta mentioning that the men were carving figurines for the children's stall. That explained the sawdust smell. “I saw her at a Christmas party. You make them?"

He nodded. "I call them 'Anna Dolls'. I pitched the idea about a year ago." 

"It's beautiful. She looks kind."

He hummed, amused. "That's what we all hope. They're for the Kinderstand at the market. We don't charge much. Just enough to keep the lights on here and buy more wood. But if you've seen them, then I guess that means they're doing well."

"You're very talented." 

"Thank you, though I'm not as experienced as some of the old masters here."

"How long have you been here?"

"A few years, but I wasn’t carving right away. I was brought here many times as a boy. I'd sort clothes and sweep the floors. When I got a bit older, Mr. Schmidt started teaching me how to handle a knife. I realized I liked doing it, so I kept coming back.”

Just then, Greta bustled by, her arms full of knitted scarves. Her face broke into a wide smile upon seeing him. “Erich, my boy! I see you're helping Mrs. Springer with our terrible ribbons. You're a lifesaver. Oh! And that Anna Doll is coming along great! You and my sister got the same eye for gentle things. Don't forget to put one of the little lambs aside for me; my grandson broke the one from last year."

"Of course, Mrs. Greta. I have one for you right here," Erich grabbed a small bag under the wrapping table, and handed it to her. The shape was wrapped in multiple layers of tissue paper to ensure its protection.

Greta's eyes welled up for a second. She put down the scarves to retrieve the bag. “You are a good boy, Erich. A very good boy."

Elizabeth watched the exchange. Envy could not help but pick at her heart, but she shoved it away. “My husband carves too." She said once Greta skipped away.

"Does he?" 

"Mhm. It's just a hobby thing, but he enjoys it a lot. He's been working on a Nativity scene for the church."

"That's wonderful. Something that ambitious certainly takes patience."

"Yes," she agreed, a grin touching her lips. A genuine one. "He started it months ago. Said he wanted it to be ready before Christmas this year. Mary and Joseph are finished. The manager, too. He's still carving the animals."

Waiting, she thought. Always waiting.

Elizabeth found her eyes drifting back to the hopeful figurine he carved. She wanted to keep the conversation going. Being cooped up in a house with a husband who has given her the silent treatment for months had left her feeling a little desperation for connection.

"Do you carve other things?"

Erich looped a gold ribbon around his fingers as he hummed, "Mostly just Anna Dolls, since it's my thing. Mr. Schmidt tells me I should try carving something with more drama, like dragons or soldiers, but I like what I do. I've done a few cats. There's an old tabby that sleeps in the back room, so I have a good model. And birds. Birds are difficult to get the wings right."

"I'm sure they are.” She imagined him patiently whittling away at a block of wood until a wing emerged.

He finished the bow and set the newly wrapped pack aside, turning towards her. "If you don't mind me saying, Mrs. Springer, I was a little surprised to see you today."

Elizabeth's hands stilled on a half-filled bag. "Oh?"

"It's just that you seem like someone who has important places to be," he clarified earnestly, ensuring she took no offense. "Successful people are usually very busy. We get volunteers, of course, but often it's students, or retired folks like Mrs. Greta."

She forgot about her clothes and how sheer the fabric was, because she had been so humbled over the years. Erich did not need to know her to know that she was rich. Plus, Tom was a well-known man, even amongst the youth. Her coat gave it away. Her bag gave it away. Her watch gave it away. Her nails gave it away. All the riches she gained from her husband and career.

She offered a self-deprecating shrug. "People can have a change of heart. Or maybe, a change of priorities. Let's just say the old Mrs. Springer wouldn't have been caught dead in a place like this, unless it was for a photo opportunity at Christmas. My generous contributions usually involved writing a check and attending a dinner."

She risked a glance at him. He was listening intently, his blue eyes holding no judgment, only interest.

Emboldened, she continued, "My priorities were different. If I'm being honest, I was more concerned with the crispness of my tablecloths than whether anyone had a roof over their head. I suppose you could say I was a rich snob. It takes something significant to make you realize how little any of that matters."

Erich did not pry into what that "something significant" was. He just nodded. "Well, we're very glad to have the new Mrs. Springer, then."

Elizabeth was giddy on her way home. Giddy enough that her grip on the steering wheel was too tight. Giddy enough that her cheeks hurt from smiling at nothing. Giddy enough that she turned up the volume to songs on the radio she regularly snoozed to. For the first time all year, her chest felt light. Buoyant. She rehearsed the story in her head, and trimmed it into something bright and casual that would make Tom laugh.

When she stepped into the house, the living room was already dim. The television murmured to itself with its blue light flickering across Tom's face. His body sank into the couch, arm draped along the back.  

She still carried the lift, and called out her husband's name breathlessly, "Tom! The people who work at the shop are so adorable!" 

"I'm glad." He never looked away from the screen. What the hell ensnared him so much about a cooking show?

She hovered near the threshold of the room. "How was your day?" 

"Good."

The single syllable landed flat, like keys fallen on concrete, or a ring down the drain.

"Work?" She tried again, lighter this time, as if the right tone would loosen him and invite him back into the room with her.

"Good."

Same response. For months, the same response. Dry as dust. No return question. No curiosity. Not even a glance at her direction.

But she failed to fight him. “I'm... glad. I'll be gone the same time tomorrow after work, honey."

He moved slightly on the couch, leather creaking beneath him, but not to face her. "Okay."

That was it. No pause. No follow-up. The television swallowed the rest of the silence. 

When Elizabeth reached their bedroom, she sat on their bed and picked up her book. She put on her readers and stared at the words, but they refused to arrange themselves into meaning. Sentences blurred and slipped away, her eyes tracing the same line again and again without comprehension. 

What she wanted to do was talk about Erich and how sweet he was. Or why he got home late sometimes from work. Or why he didn’t pay attention to her when he was home. But he clearly did not want to talk… for whatever reason.

She tried calling her mom, but the phone never picked up. She looked at the time, and it was close to ten. Right. Helga would be in bed right now. It was best not to disrupt her.

Finding nothing else to do, she turned off the lamp and rolled over in their bed.

That was the thing. It was supposed to be their bed, but it always hers. Tom slept on the couch most nights.

The days slipped by in unremarkable ways. Elizabeth returned to Hoffnung & Hände after work, and then again on Saturday mornings, when the town was hushed beneath the Advent gray with all the kids sleeping in on Christmas break. Each visit had coffee poured into mismatched mugs, coats piled on chairs, and pine needles scattered across the floor. 

Erich was usually already there.

He worked quietly, with his sleeves rolled to his forearms and hands steady as he carved, sanded, or helped set up crates for the market. He never drew attention to himself nor tried to fill the space with words when they were not needed. That actually made it easier to speak to him.

Sometimes they worked side by side, and it felt like her first day again. She felt a deep sense of déjà vu when he put the Anna Doll between them on the table. She was painted this time, with white skin, blonde hair, and a black dress and coat. She could tell Erich had carved a hat to go with the outfit, but had yet to be painted. Despite being unfinished, she was sparkling.

Elizabeth could not help but think out loud, "Your parents must be bursting with pride to have a son with such talent and drive."

Erich's hands did not falter. He continued to focus on the doll. "I don't have parents, Mrs. Springer," he said calmly, as if he were commenting on the weather.

"Oh... Erich, I am so sorry. That was... I shouldn't have assumed. Please, forgive me."

He dismissed her apology with a shaking head. "It's alright. You couldn't have known. It was a long time ago." He picked up a small block of linden wood and his carving knife, his focus shifting to close the topic.

But Elizabeth couldn't let it go. "But, where do you live, then?"

"I'm at the St. Michael's Orphanage on the other side of the park." He began to shave a thin curl of wood from the block. "Mrs. Greta fusses over me like I'll catch a chill in July, and Mr. Schmidt still scolds me for not holding my carving knife properly. But both their houses are too small for me, and, though I hate to admit it, they’re too old. The conditions at the orphanage are just okay, but it's a roof over my head, and the people are kind enough. It's better than the streets, especially in this cold weather. There are many less lucky than I."

That was it.

"How old are you, if you don't mind me asking?" It was a random question, but it had a purpose. 

"Seventeen, ma'am. I'll be eighteen in April."

Her breath hitched.  

Their friendship was too perfect. Erich was a boy with nowhere to belong. Elizabeth was a woman who never had a child to call her own. This place of pine, glue, and old paper was both their sanctuary. 

Born in April. To be dressed in December. Smart and well-mannered. A beautiful, beautiful boy. He was everything she ever wanted in a child.  She thought of her prayers again, how she'd been praying the same thing for months.

"Mary, you know what it is to be chosen. You know what it is to carry life when it seems impossible. Please. Pray for us. Pray for me."

God delivered him to her. Erich was the prayer. Erich was her miracle child.

Elizabeth wanted to tell Tom about Erich more and more, but they began fighting. 

Unlike what Tom thinks, it was not a bomb dropped out of nowhere, but a bottle that broke because it could not hold any more poison.

It started over nothing. Over dinner plates left barely touched, over Tom's distracted "Good" when Elizabeth mentioned the Christmas markets, over the way he did not ask anything more.

Everything shattered. She smashed her fork on the table.

"'Good'," She repeated, "Just 'good'. Do you hear yourself?"

"What—?"

"No, listen to how that sounds," she said, voice already tight. "That's all you ever say anymore. Good. Fine. Okay." She laughed the most humorless laugh, "I'm trying to be a decent wife, Tom. I really am. But you're so content with being sad all the time for something I have no control over."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" She shot back. "Do you think I wanted to be infertile? Do you think this is something I chose? I'm never going to experience having a child of my own. Never. Even though I want it more than any of my friends did. You'll never understand how horrible that makes me feel every single day."

"I never blame you, honey."

She shook her head, tears burning now, "But it feels like you do every time you pull away. Every time you look at me, it's a reminder of what I don't have."

Silence fell between them.

"I'm trying." She continued, softer but more desperate. "I'm trying to be happy this Christmas. I'm trying to get us out of the house, to do things, to not drown in this." She took a breath, then said it. Too fast. Too honest. "I've been volunteering, and I made a friend."

Tom looked up sharply. "A friend."

"Yes," she said. "A seventeen-year-old orphan boy. His name is Erich. He would make a wonderful son. He's smart and funny and kind. He carves, Tom. Just like you. He wants to help people. He sees the good in everything despite him probably sleeping in a creaky, dirty bed in a cramped up room every single night.”

"Elizabeth—“

"He could save us, Tom. He's everything you say you want and mourn. But no." She twisted her voice in a bitter imitation of him, "Adoption isn't the same. I want my own blood. Bla bla bla.' I'm so tired of your nonsense."

Tom stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor, "That's enough. You don't get to throw another man in my face and call it kindness."

"I'm not throwing him in your face! I'm showing you what we could have if you stop clinging to an idea that's dead!"

"So, that's it. Our child—hypothetical or otherwise— is being replaced by a kid who's almost fully grown?"

"That's not what I said."

"That's exactly what you said."

"I just don't want to live in mourning forever."

"And I don't want to pretend this didn't destroy something in me. I lost something too."

"But you won't let me grieve without letting me punish myself." She crossed her arms.

"I need some air." He moved toward the door in rapid steps. 

"Good." Maybe it will save you from the lame, disgusting shit you smoke, she thought. 

The next day was Krampusnacht, and Elizabeth made it her mission to introduce Erich to Tom. It would get her husband out of bed, or away from the porch to continue his nasty habit. 

Woodsmoke and roasting chestnuts filled the air, and the heady combination allowed her to settle comfortably in the cold. Both Erich and Elizabeth stood within the calm of an aid station at the edge of the bustling town square. In the distance, a clangor of bells began its approach along with roars that clawed at the frosty air.

At Elizabeth’s prompting, Erich began the inventory of their first-aid kits. His fingers audited the contents as he called out, “Bandages, antiseptic wipes, and a tin of cough drops.” He glanced toward the growing tumult of the parade route. "All that bellowing does a number on their vocal cords. The performers like to swing by for a lozenge after the main procession."

A grin played on Elizabeth’s lips as she imagined the sight. A terrifying Krampus... requesting cherry-flavored lozenges. It earned a chuckle out of her. 

Soon, the cacophony of bells intensified, vibrating in her chest. The crowd along the square compressed into a tide. Parents drew their children closer, and a forest of candy rose to participate in the spectacle. The dusting of snow on the concrete churned into a gray slush by a thousand anxious boots.

Elizabeth’s gaze settled on a pack of pre-teen boys. They horsed around by shoving each other closer to the performers. The snowflakes painted the tip of their noses and eyelids in a holy glow that complemented their angelic laughs.

"Keep an eye out, Mrs. Springer," Erich warned, “The younger ones can get a little swept up in the chaos. Last year, a boy tripped over a performer's chain.”

She continued to watch the boys, their faces twisting into the tale that Erich described. She remembered the faces. Orange hair, freckles, and green eyes...

“Was his name Hans?”  

Erich nodded. “You know him?”

“His grandfather is my next-door neighbor," Elizabeth confirmed. “I know the story well. It earned him three stitches to the head and a stern lecture from his grandfather."

“I can imagine. His adoptive brother was from St. Michael’s. Both of them are sweet kids. A bit accident-prone, but their hearts are in the right place. They’ll probably be in the thick of it again tonight."

Tonight. Elizabeth had to ask him right now...

As if on cue, the Krampus burst into the square. The creature was draped in matted fur and wore a snarling mask, fantastically terrifying, like the boogeyman she read in stories. His horns swept from side to side, forcing gasps and screams. Heavy chains scraped and rattled on the stone as they lunged toward the shrieking crowd, their birch roots cracking against the ground like whips. Children screamed, some in terror, others in adrenaline-fueled ecstasy as they darted away from the beasts. 

One of the creatures, in its face of malevolence, veered too close to their station, and Elizabeth flinched. Noticing her reaction, Erich subtly repositioned himself to place her on the far side of the aid table, shielding her from the direct line of the parade and offering a less confrontational view. The protective gesture sent a surprising warmth through her chest.

Just then, a small boy, messy with tears and dirt, stumbled toward them. He was towed along by his mother’s hand with his own clutching a scraped and bleeding knee. A hulking Krampus loomed nearby, leering down as if contemplating mischief, before it was drawn back into the swirling chaos.

Erich's soothing voice cut through the child’s sobs as he knelt. He cleaned the wound with a gentle touch using the wipes Elizabeth provided for him. Watching the boy’s fear subside under his calm ministrations had her resolve hardened.

She imagined a toddler tripping on hills as she set up a panic. She would clean his wounds as Tom put rocks on the edges of the blankets. Her son would eat his sandwich and get mustard all over his face, but she brought napkins because she knew that would happen. Because she was prepared to be a mother since she was ten. Because she didn't expect that dream to be ripped away from her.

There would be ups and downs to parenthood. They would scream when they were young. They would roll their eyes as teenagers. They would sneak around, and she would have to catch them.

The boy's mother thanked Erich for treating his son, and Erich was given a grateful embrace by the child before they walked away.

No son she could think of would ever be as perfect as Erich, which is why she needed her plan to work.

"Erich," she began, the words running from her lips before she could second-guess herself, "if it isn't too forward of me, would you like to come to our house for dinner sometime? My husband and I would be so pleased to get to know you better."

His focus snapped from the parade to her, "Really? You'd want me over?" 

"Of course!" she replied with overflowing enthusiasm, "We insist. It would be a lovely evening."

"That's very kind of you, but I wouldn't want to impose—"

"It is no imposition at all," she assured him,  "We genuinely want to have you. Think of it as a small escape from the orphanage."

A slow smile spread across Erich’s face, erasing the last traces of doubt. "I’d really like that."

"Wonderful! I'll speak with Tom, and we'll arrange everything," Her entire body was weightless, like sunflowers, as she thought of him in their home, at their table.

Another percussive wave of bells and roars gushed through the square. A Krampus detached from the pack and ambled over to their station. It tilted its horned head with a quizzical-looking mask, and held out a fur-covered hand.

In a gravelly whisper, it rasped, "Cough drop?"

Elizabeth opened the tin and tipped a red candy into the varmint's palm.

The oven and the doorbell rang simultaneously. Elizabeth called for her husband to get the potatoes as she rushed to the front door. She opened it to find Erich bundled in his signature, fashionable yet warm clothes. He carried something wrapped in aluminum foil. 

"Evening, Mrs. Springer," he said, his breath pluming in the frigid air.

"Erich, please, come in out of the cold," she urged him inside. Once Erich crossed the threshold, she assisted him in discarding his jacket. "We're so glad you could make it. You didn't have to bring anything."

"It's just leftover Kletzenbrot from Hoffnug & Hände." He clarified, "I know you couldn’t be there after the parade, so I made sure to pack some in case you wanted to try."

Tom emerged from the living room, probably upon hearing the commotion, with a cable-knit sweater stretched over his broad shoulders. "So, you're the lad from the workshop," he said with appraising scrutiny.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Springer," Erich replied, extending his hand.

Tom took it, but his grip was deliberately lax, which left the handshake awkward to watch. Elizabeth winced inwardly, bracing for offense from their guest. Instead, Erich’s smile remained; if anything, it gained a subtle placidity. It was surprising how unfazed he was, but, then again, the man was accustomed to navigating far more treacherous social currents than a curmudgeon's passive challenge.

Elizabeth took his offering of Kletzenbrot as she took him to the dining room. The plate was still faintly warm. "Thank you, Erich. This is so thoughtful." She lifted it slightly, and the rich aroma of dried fruits, spices, and warm bread permeated the foil. "It smells absolutely delicious."

The Springers' dining room was bathed in the intimate lighting of the Advent wreath suspended above the table, its four candles casting shadows on the walls. As Erich entered, his gaze was drawn to a large wooden crucifix hung in the place of honor above the doorway. He regarded it for a moment with a quiet air that Elizabeth had difficulty deciphering. In her eagerness, she made a broad assumption about his religious faith, most likely because he volunteered for an event associated with a Christian holiday. 

But had she overstepped?

"I'm hanging your coat on the back of the coat rack," she said simply so her voice would break the silence.

"Thank you for inviting me," Erich said, his eyes sweeping the room. "Everything looks beautiful."

After she hung his jacket, she took the potatoes from the kitchen and brought them to the dining room to fully prepare the table. From his seat at the head of the table, Tom huffed. "Aye. Elizabeth always goes overboard with the theatrics. Sit down, lad."

Erich took his designated seat, and she shot her husband a warning glance that he pointedly ignored, turning his attention instead to his water glass.

"Now, then!" Elizabeth announced with forced cheerfulness, moving to the sideboard. "I've made Rinderrouladen, Erich. I hope you like it! It's an old family recipe. And Kartoffelknödel, of course!"

"It smells wonderful, Mrs. Springer. Thank you."

Elizabeth began placing generous portions on each plate: hearty roasts of duck with bread dumplings and red cabbage, as well as the Rinderrouladen and Kartoffelknödel (still hot from the oven). As she worked, she was acutely aware of Tom watching Erich with hawkish focus, assessing a piece of lumber for flaws.

Once she sat, she clasped her hands tightly together to begin the table prayer, "Komm, Herr Jesu, sei unser Gast. Und segne, was du uns beschert hast."

Just as she closed her eyes, she sensed Erich bowing his head with her. His soft voice evolved into a baritone that blended perfectly with hers. He knew the prayer. Certainty settled in her heart. He belonged.

With a final "Amen," the prayer granted them the time to eat.

"So, Erich," Tom began, his fork pausing over his plate. "Elizabeth tells me you've been helping out at the community workshop."

"Yes, sir. I'm there most days."

"That means you were involved with that Krampus parade this morning..."

Erich nodded as he unfolded his napkin. Cool and clean.

Tom scoffed. "Krampusnacht. All that pagan nonsense. A ridiculous spectacle. I don't hold with it myself."

"Well, it's a community tradition," Elizabeth interjected quickly, her tone defensive. "And it brings a lot of excitement to the children. Besides, we weren't celebrating it. We were at the aid station, making sure the performers were safe. It gets freezing in those costumes, and they need proper care."

"It's quite all right, Mrs. Springer. I can understand his concerns. Tradition can often seem strange from the outside."

"Hmph," Tom grunted, not yet satisfied. "And what is it you do at the shop, lad? I know you weren't born with the most fortunate circumstances."

Elizabeth squirmed in her seat, and she felt Erich's eyes on her as she forced duck in her mouth. "I mostly carve," he answered smoothly. "Small figurines, ornaments, that sort of thing."

"Oh, I have one, Tom! Let me show you," Elizabeth exclaimed, grateful for the change in subject. She hurried to the Christmas tree in the corner of the living room and retrieved an exquisitely detailed angel from one of its branches. She brought it back and handed it to her husband.

Tom took the angel, and his skepticism was presently replaced by curiosity. He turned it over in his hands, his thumb tracing the lines of the wings and the serene expression on the face. "Hmm," he conceded, holding it up to the candlelight. "Not bad... The grain is well-chosen... Good detail work."

Seeing her opening, Elizabeth pressed her advantage. "Tom, why don't you tell Erich about the new carving you're working on for the church?"

Tom set the angel down. "Aye, well, I'm carving a new panel for the high altar. The Adoration of the Magi. It's demanding work, and the Advent deadline is threatening to bite me. I guess... I could use an extra pair of hands, especially ones with unique vision." He looked directly at Erich, "You'd be compensated for your time, of course."

The offer hung in the air, and the beating in her heart ceased as each second offered nothing but quiet. She knew he did not have long to answer, but to say that would be to diminish his chance even more. 

So she waited, her fingernails digging the wood under the table.

"It would be an honor." Erich finally said, and ate more potatoes like it was nothing.

Elizabeth's heart leaped. That was the perfect response.

***

Later that night, as Elizabeth cleared the last of the dessert plates, Tom came to stand beside her in the kitchen. For a long moment, he said nothing, watching her, but then he opened his mouth. "I like him, Liz."

Elizabeth halted her movements and turned to him with exasperated fondness. "Well, I never would’ve guessed from the way you were interrogating him all through dinner."

"That's just the thing," Tom countered, "I was. And he kept up with me. Didn't flinch. Didn't grovel. Nothing. Every jab I gave him, he handled with refinement. I didn't expect a tiny thing like him to have already forged his own steel, but the kid's sharp, and I know you adore him." He paused, picking up the small wooden angel from the counter where he'd left it. "I'm interested."

Elizabeth could remember meeting him like it was yesterday. Now, Erich had been living with them for about a year, and it was Christmas time once again. 

At last, her first Christmas with a son. 

His shoes sat by the door. His coat hung on the second hook. His quiet movements no longer startled her. Since Erich had come into their lives, the sharp edges of the house had softened. Tom laughed more easily, with the silences less friable, and the evenings no longer felt so cavernous.

It was great.

Everything was great.

Great.

Outside, December pressed against the windows. The late afternoon sky was already dimming, snow threatening but not yet falling. Inside, the house smelled yet again of pine sap and clove. A half-lit tree in the corner of the sitting room stood with uneven ornaments as the house was preparing itself for the Christmas party Tom said would "make the house dance.”

Elizabeth was fixing the ornaments when the doorbell rang.

Tom stood in the entryway, straightening his collar for no real reason. "Do you remember Mr. Günther from my work, honey?" His hand twisted the knob.

She glanced up from the box of ornaments in her lap. "No."

"Well, doesn't matter," Tom pulled the door open. "I hired his nephew to help us decorate the place for the party. He's around Erich's age. I'm sure they could get along."

Cold air rushed in with the clean young man. He was tall and thin in the way young men often were before life settled into them, with chestnut hair damp from rain and a coat that had seen better winters. He shifted his weight just inside the doorway, and his eyes flicked around the house as though unsure of where to land them.

Elizabeth noticed his hesitation immediately as she walked to the door. His shoulders stayed tight, like a hand hovering over a wound. She could tell just by that action alone that this was the biggest house he had ever seen, and he was intimidated. 

"This is my wife, Elizabeth Springer," Tom said, stepping aside.

Elizabeth waved.

"And Erich," Tom added.

Erich had risen from the armchair near the window and came to them upon the calling of his name. He stood very still, his expression unreadable, though Elizabeth came to recognize the signs... Like how his jaw was set or how his gaze sharpened at things that intrigued him.

The young man looked at Erich.

Erich looked back.

The ribbon between them was pulled too tight, and like many from Hoffnung & Hände, it was about to snap, and their hands would burn. The young man's brow furrowed, like he was trying to place a face from a dream he could not recall.

"Hi," He mumbled.

Erich nodded, "Hi."

Elizabeth watched them, her hands stilling at her sides. A sensation prickled at the back of her neck. She told herself it was nothing. People saw patterns where none existed all the time. Erich had that effect on strangers sometimes. Still, the feelings refused to dissipate.

Tom clapped his hands together, "Well, come on in. You'll be helping with the lights outside and the garlands. You know the drill. I'll grab the ladder from the garage."

As Tom disappeared down the hall, the house fell quiet again. The only things emitting sound were the radio and a floorboard creaking as the heat kicked on.

The young man glanced once more at Erich, then at Elizabeth, offering a polite smile that seemed to require effort. Elizabeth knew that look all too well. He was skittish just as she would get when she was nervous. "I'm...uh... I’m here to help with the decorations."

"Yes," Elizabeth returned with a gentle voice, “Thank you for coming. It's quite a bit this year."

She had the sudden, inexplicable urge to ask Erich if he knew him, but the question stalled just as it rose, trapped behind reason. It didn't make sense if they had. In the past year Erich had lived with them, he and Elizabeth have had many talks about his past. Although he was a charming kid, she believed him when he said he wasn't social. It wasn't like he had much money to do much anyway.

The only time he really went out was to help at Hoffnung & Hände, which she would accompany him to. He had just turned the age where he was allowed to go places that didn’t require parental supervision. What other time in his life was he able to build connections she would not be aware of? 

Erich cleared his throat. "I'll show him around." 

Elizabeth looked at him. She searched his face for a sign, but he was already turning toward the hall. The young man hesitated only a moment before following. Erich stole him so quickly. She still didn't even know the kid's name. Tom hadn’t introduced him properly to her. 

Why was every moment she had with people so fleeting?

"That would be great," Tom called from the garage. "Thanks, Erich."

The boy's footsteps moved in quiet sync down the corridor, and their shadows stretched along the wall as the light faded. 

She exhaled slowly as she returned to the tree and reached for another ornament. Christmas carols sang on the radio with the intent to lift her spirits, but the churning in her stomach stayed with her all the same

The boys came back inside an hour later with snow clinging to their coats and pine needles stuck in Erich's hair. Tom followed them in, lugging the ladder, too loudly about extension cords and outlets. The flushed young man trailed behind Erich with his hands shoved into his pockets.

Elizabeth set down the ribbon she had been fussing with. "I'm sorry, what was your name again?"

He startled slightly, like he hadn’t expected to be addressed directly, "Oh. Uh—Hansel."

"Well, Hansel, thank you for braving the cold. Can I get you some coffee? Or maybe cocoa instead?"

His relief was immediate, almost boyish. "Coffee would be great, ma'am."

Hansel hovered near the kitchen doorway while Elizabeth poured the coffee, attentive, and thanked her twice for the mug. He spoke carefully, like he would say the wrong thing if he did not, and when he laughed, it came out a beat too late.

Over the next weeks, Hansel became familiar in the same quiet way Erich had. He came by three times a week to help string lights or carry boxes down from the attic. Sometimes Tom paid him; sometimes he did not, and Hansel never seemed to pay mind either way. The poor boy was awkward, sure, but not unlikable. Just a little lonely, always apologizing for taking up space. Elizabeth would be lying if she said she didn't know what that was like.

He and Erich spoke more than she expected, though never about anything she could quite hear. There were the low voices in the garage or brief exchanges on the porch. Once, looking at the window while washing dishes, she saw them surface out of the woods far from their lawn.

After throwing the dishtowel in the sink, she met halfway at the front yard. "Where did you go, Erich?"

He gave her the most charming answer, "Why, I went in the old woods, Miss." He smiled with a smile so brilliant that it nearly satisfied her. But that was the obvious. Why was it so easy to trick her? 

"You know you're not supposed to go there."

"I know."

"So why did you?"

Though she posed her query directly, there was no discernment at all. Instead, he walked away, fingers intertangled behind his back.

”Erich.” She called his name. Twice. But there was no acknowledgement.

Why was every moment she had with people so fleeting?

Before Helga got sick, she planted sunflowers in their yard. Gardening was a hobby she loved since she learned she could do it. Every Sunday morning she would visit, after church, Elizabeth sat on the porch, rocking in a chair, reading the bible as her mother planted her sunflowers. In the summer, she planted tomatoes, sometimes tulips, and strawberries. 

Elizabeth always loved the flowers and the birds, loved the sunlight and the clouds that drifted by. She always loved the way the leaves moved in a breeze, and the whispering sounds they made. Nature loved to chatter with her mother, too. Yet, over the years, even with her miracle child, the exhaustion that began a while ago remained a veil over her skin, slowly aging. Helga could no longer walk without her cane, and she needed assistance at home. Elizabeth forgot to be happy when she saw the petals and the twigs swaying outside the window. The only thing she could see was a Helga that could move and breathe, but that version of her was long dead.

And she couldn't cling to ideas that were dead. Not anymore.

That was why she didn't fight Tom when he explained that he wanted to get rid of the flowerbeds to make more parking space. It made sense. A lot of guests would be attending, and their driveway was easily the worst part about their house. It could barely fit two cars. Even if there was a little resistance due to sentimental connections, she never protested verbally and watched as Tom's hired workers destroyed the whole thing.

It was her childhood’s burial. It sat like rain on Elizabeth's skin, enough to chill what was once warm inside. At any other time, she would have called a friend, asked for the warmth she needed to ward it off, just a little would be enough. Not any longer. It happened sometimes when Helga didn't answer her calls. She would lay on the porch, and let the rain come, drop by drop, and she would feel an ocean instead of rain. 

The raw earth was still fresh when Hansel arrived. The dark soil turned up in uneven clumps, like ant piles, and tire marks pressed deep where the stems used to lean toward the sun. But that ocean was built up by clouds that blocked the sun. Her slippers sank into the damp dirt as she stepped off the porch.

Hansel had come up the drive without anyone noticing and halted abruptly at the sight. His face paled, in turn, beginning to blend in with the morning light. "W-What happened?"

"We're making room for our holiday guests. We've had this wretched driveway for too long." Tom said from behind her, already defensive, as if he rehearsed the line. 

"You didn't have to kill them." The boy's voice escalated in range, and he grew agitated unnecessarily quickly, "They were beautiful! They breathed life into this place. People slowed down their cars to admire them. I saw it myself!"

Hansel turned to Elizabeth, who had been staring at the ground, embarrassed and ashamed, "How could you let him do this? Knowing that these were all planted by your mother?"

"What?"

"Your mother. She planted these before—"

Her heart skipped a few beats. "Yes, I know. Just... how did you know they were planted by her?"

"Erich told me."

Her mind groped for the memory, but the only thing it could cling to was frustrating haziness. Her mother, frail and coughing through phone calls, apologizing for missing another season. The last Christmas she had been well enough to travel to was before Erich ever came into their lives. Elizabeth could picture her mother's hands in the soil, gloves too big, laughing about how the sunflowers reached for something brighter. Much like her dreams. But that was why she loved them. That was why she planted them.

But there was no way she ever confessed that to Erich. She would remember being so intimate. 

"He did?"

Hansel hummed and nodded, as if it were obvious. His breath grew uneven, "That's…” He swallowed hard. "So cruel. How could you do that? To destroy something with so much care, knowing how poor her health is. She may not be alive to see it again—"

Tom pushed Hansel away from her, "Alright. That's enough, young man. You don't ever talk to my wife like that. I'm paying you to have everything spotless for our guests, not to question the decisions we make in our house. And quit whining like a little bitch, you're a man. Go inside and make yourself useful. I don't have time for your bullshit."

Elizabeth felt the ground tilt beneath her. 

Hansel let out a shaky breath and turned away, shoulders hunched, holding himself together with physical damning effort, and retreated down the drive.

Tom watched him go, then shook his head. "Unbelievable."

"It's fine."

"No, it's not fine. He does that again, he's fired."

Elizabeth continued to stare at the bare earth, wondering (not for the first time) whether peace could ever belong to her permanently. Erich told him about her mother being sick... About those flowers being hers...

How could Erich have known that? And, even if he had, why would he share such information with someone who had no privilege?

If she could not remember telling Erich these things, how many things had she forgotten?

Tom departed urgently for work that evening, leaving Elizabeth in the dining room with Erich. Hansel already took his leave for the night.

Good, she thought. He never looked at her the same since the sunflower incident the previous day.

Because of said incident, she had consciously avoided Erich for most of the day, but he appeared indifferent to the distance between them. He made no effort to communicate or assist her with anything, as if her presence held little significance in the grand scheme of his perfect mind...

She thought of when she washed those dishes and caught sight of the two emerging from the woods… and how he blatantly disregarded her questions… Could that have been when he told Hansel about her mother? 

”You never answered my question yesterday."

Erich never spoke. Only stared. Knowingly as well.

"Why did you wander into the old woods? And with Hansel, who isn't familiar with the place... I don't even remember showing you those parts. How could you have known them?"

"Had I'd known you'd be this troubled, I would've lied to you." He looked at her unamused expression, "I didn’t mean to linger for so long. I apologize.”

The words rolled off his tongue with an ease that belied their weight, yet Elizabeth stood her ground. “What did you two do?"

"We just explored. It was Hansel’s idea anyway. I thought you would know by now that we’re adventurous. Though, you fail to know a lot of things.”

What the hell does that mean?

That was it. She didn’t know what snapped, but the thirst for knowledge had provoked her.

“…Do you two know each other?” She finally ventured. 

Erich stared at her for a lengthy moment before taking another bite at his steak. Elizabeth maintained her patience as he swallowed his food, her own plate emotionally neglected, “Hansel bears a striking resemblance to you," He replied. "He has an anxious tic— he takes a sip of his drink every time he speaks. Or he bites his nails. Or picks at his lips. He always needs something to touch. I noticed you do the same. Especially when conversing with Mr. Springer."

He ignored his question.

But dammit, she was fascinated by his observation that it successfully distracted her from what mattered. 

"I do?"

He nodded slowly. "Yes. Though you reserve that habit around me, which raises a troubling question: why do you feel uneasy with your husband?"

"I’m not uneasy."

"Subconsciously, you are. Otherwise, these habits wouldn’t manifest. Did he mock you for your infertility?" Erich's inquiry sliced through the air, sharp and accusatory. "You both yearned for children. Why else would you have seized the opportunity to adopt me? You sought to appease your husband’s discontent regarding the burden you’ve placed upon him. You’ve been yearning for his affection since receiving that devastating news, haven’t you? He’s grown distant ever since."

Kill her now. She couldn't take this. Every letter he uttered, she felt, would be uttered during the rapture, where he stood like an angry God, counting down her sins and crossing them off.

"... 'Mock' is a strong word," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Forgive my bluntness. But he did desire a son, did he not? A child of his own blood?"

She nodded, her throat constricting as emotions churned within her.

"And was he disappointed by your inability to provide that?"

Another nod. Her heart ached with a dull throb that echoed the void in her life. Why was Erich always right?

"But he loves me."

“Where is he, then?"

"He’s at work," Elizabeth replied, avoiding his penetrating stare and staring at her dinner. "An accident occurred."

"A convenient excuse."

Frustration welled up within her, and she dropped her silverware onto the plate. The clatter echoed in the silence. She looked up to Erich, who still remained chillingly impassive.

"Why are you speaking to me like this?"

"I'm only trying to make conversation, Miss. I thought we were having a pleasant evening."

"Pleasant? This is anything but."

He exhaled with a closed mouth. "All I want you to understand is that ignorance is a curse. You remain oblivious and reluctant to seek the truth, which amplifies your anxiety. Explore what transpires in your home."

"What do you mean?"

"Is it that difficult to sense what I'm hinting at?" He picked up his finished plate and headed to the kitchen, stopping at the entrance to bid her a good night before leaving her alone.

It was the twenty-third, and the eggnog sat in a creamy, unfinished state in the punch bowl, mocking Elizabeth. She stared at it as nausea took over her. Nutmeg and Vanilla. How could she have forgotten? The party was in a few hours, and guests would be arriving at an earlier time.

"Tom!" She called, “I need to run to the store. Watch Erich and Hansel."

Tom, perpetually glued to a sitcom, mumbled an acknowledgment. Elizabeth walked to the doorway with clenched hands, "Tom, I'm serious. Watch them. No screens. Go do something. Talk to them. Please." Her voice cracked on the last word.

He finally turned his head. "What's wrong with you?" His question was filled with weary irritation, as with most of his responses nowadays. "You're always so jumpy now, and you never used to be. Makes a man wonder what you're so afraid of."

“Though you reserve that habit around me, which raises a troubling question: why do you feel uneasy with your husband?"

I'm not uneasy. I'm not afraid. But she never said that out loud. She frowned as she grabbed her purse and keys.

The grocery store's tinsel glittered aggressively under her. A tinny version of Jingle Bells piped through the speakers. Near the entrance, a man in a plush red suit and a voluminous white beard was booming and shaking bells.

As Elizabeth tried to hurry past a cart, the man's eyes, a... startling familiar brown, landed on her. His professional smile faltered for a fraction of a second.

"Elizabeth Springer? Oh my goodness, it's been an age!"

"I... I'm sorry, do I know you?"

Saint Nick chuckled. "It's me, Alan! From the church choir? Before you all stopped coming." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Remember? I used to sit behind you and Erich."

Unwelcome recognition dawned. Alan. Of course. The man who always had a kind word, but a little too much interest. The man whose gaze lingered too long on her son. The man whom Erich challenged with his frosty stare. The man who grew too excited at his touch when handshakes were encouraged by the pastor. 

"Oh, Alan. Oh, my goodness," she forced a brittle smile. "I didn't recognize you with the beard."

"Well, it's part of the job!" He beamed, the false cheer returning, "How are you, Elizabeth? And how's that wonderful boy of yours? Still got the voice of an angel, I bet."

Mhm. The voice of an angel. That was the problem.

How was he? He was a viper in the nest wanting to feed. A cuckoo in the clock waiting to push the chicks out.

But he had the voice of an angel, which was how he stayed cooped up for so long. In that year, he figured out what made her and Tom tick, and the marriage grew even more bitter after it got better. 

Her memories reverted back to when he first waved at her the first day of Advent last year with that sweet, false smile. Who knows how long he's had her on a string?

"We're doing well, Alan. Very busy with the holidays, of course." She pushed her cart forward in the desperate need to escape him propelling her.

"Right, well, I won't keep you. Merry Christmas, Elizabeth!"

Thank God that man didn't know where she lived.

Inside the store, she navigated the aisles and grabbed the vanilla extract with a shaky hand. The spice aisle was next. As she walked through the claustrophobic space, the shelves were leaning in, and the rows of identical glass jars produced eyes.

She could feel the stares of other shoppers judging her recklessly.

She knew exactly why. Demons were destroying her house, and she let them in. She could see it now as Erich's black magic composed her a waking nightmare to project onto the back of her eyes: Tom, dissolving into the couch; Hansel's face slowly taking on vacancy, and Erich sitting calmly amidst the chaos, a small, satisfied smile on his lips. For some odd reason, he'd seen this movie many times, but enjoyed re-enacting it.

What were they doing to the wine?

Then the vision stopped, but a new show was on for her. A wave of dizziness. It was so profound that the floor bounced like ocean waves. The birds inside her chest tore at her skin as they desperately sought freedom, and she coughed up blood as they protested further.

You let the Devil in, a voice whispered, sounding like the prim, judgmental Mrs. Gable from down the street.

Elizabeth's hand shot out to grab a shelf for support as she stumbled. Jars of paprika and cayenne pepper clattered, one falling and shattering on the linoleum with a puff of red dust. The world began to warp. The face of a woman passing by elongated, her mouth stretching into a grotesque scream. The eyes of a teenage stock boy became black, empty pits. They were all pointing.

What's wrong with you? Tom's voice dripped with contempt.

Voice of an angel.. Alan’s voice was saccharine and sinister.

Look what you did. The pre-teens from the Krampuslauf laughed with a cruel and high-pitched noise. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

They all took their voices.

In a spasm of animal panic, she shoved the small bottle of vanilla and a tin of nutmeg into her purse. She had to get out. She abandoned the cart, its single wheel spinning with a pathetic squeak, and fled.

You're all gonna die.

She burst through the automatic doors, and the security alarm blared. The electronic shriek amplified the terror in her heart as the noise confirmed her guilt to the entire world. The parking lot spun violently. The festive lights of the storefronts blurred into streaks of hostile color.

He's here. He's coming for you. He's going to drag you to Hell.

Her legs gave out. She crumpled to the asphalt just outside the entrance, the rough surface scraping her knees through her jeans. Hyperventilation wracked her body in great waves. She couldn't stop shaking. Hot tears streamed down her face, freezing on her skin. She curled into a fetal position on the cold ground, the dirty, leftover snow melting into her hair. She was vaguely aware of people staring, their faces a mixture of pity and suspicion, but all she wanted was to scream, a raw, primal sound to block out the noise, the lights, the faces, the voices...

A large, red-clad figure suddenly blocked her from the crowd.

Damnit, Alan. "It's alright, folks, she just felt a little faint! The holiday rush gets to us all, doesn't it? Ho ho ho!" His Santa voice boomed to placate the concerned onlookers.

Then, he knelt beside her in a suffocating shield. His voice dropped its theatricality, "Easy now, Elizabeth. Just breathe. That's it. In and out. I'm right here. Are you okay?"

She couldn't speak, only gasp for air as the panic slowly, agonizingly, began to recede, leaving behind the wet pavement and the weight of his suffocating concern.

But she didn't get better. The gasps subsided into ragged sobs. It was because of many things. Fear. Embarrassment. Most definitely shame.

She didn't know a lot of things. She didn't know why this was happening to her. She didn't know when she and Tom had become such bitter strangers again. She didn't know what was changing Hansel, what darkness was tainting him. She didn't know why she got this achy, soul-deep, horrible feeling every time she stared at Erich or thought his name.

But as she shivered under Saint Nicholas, one thing solidified.

That boy was a monster, and he needed out of her damn house.

At last, the house was finished, and Elizabeth's painted face added to the touch. The main event was the sitting room, where coconut macaroon clouds sailed from the kitchen as merry aeronauts. Apple turnover hills slumbered as pillows. Wind as icing gaily blustered around, whipping air as invisible cream. A bunch of flowers in a vase sat upon the table in red, white, and green blooms. Lights had the house appear as a diamond amidst rock.

Soaking in God's dusk rays from the window, Elizabeth could say she was content.

Hansel was a handful in many ways, but he certainly did well with the decorations.

The first to arrive were the Beckers from down the lane, bearing a bottle of schnapps and grateful Christmas wishes. They were soon followed by a handful of Tom's craftsmen from the guild, which consisted of three tree-tall men with splitting wood laughter. They gathered near the kitchen to admire her husband's handwork and speak in the comfortable shorthand of their shared trade.

Once the doorbell chimed a softer note, Elizabeth's heart squeezed. She opened the door to find Tom carefully helping her mother up the final step.

Helga's body was bent by a severe scoliosis that twisted her spine into a permanent curve, but she refused to sit in a wheelchair, which was why she constantly shook on her cane. The years etched deep lines around her eyes and mouth, and her breath came in shallow puffs from increasing effort. Yet, despite the architecture of her ailments, her face was just as luminous as she remembered in her childhood. 

Suddenly, she wished those sunflowers would stay, so she could show her mother how well she took care of them. Good thing night had fallen so that she couldn't be reminded of them. 

"Mother!" Elizabeth exclaimed and came forward to kiss her soft, wrinkled cheek. "So glad you made it."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, my Lizzie," Helga chirped, her voice thin but bright as a songbird's. She leaned heavily on Tom’s arm as he guided her inside. "Oh, Thomas, you are a saint for fetching me."

"Nonsense, Helga. You're light as a feather." Tom rumbled. He settled her into the most comfortable armchair by the fire, tucking a blanket around her legs.

More guests filled the house, including friends The Springer’s only got to see once a year, and cousins she tried remembering the names of.

Given how forty-two people socialized under one roof, the atmosphere was hectic and loud, but a hush fell as a new figure entered the room. It was Erich. Nobody had seen him prior to this moment, so they didn’t know of his liquid grace that was odd for his eighteen years, nor were they aware of the angelic quality of his voice.

Every eye dropped to him, but he was focused on Helga. Slowly, he made his way over to her.

"It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Erich," she said. "I've heard so much about you."

Erich took her weathered hand to envelop it in his own. "The pleasure is all mine."

"You have beautiful eyes. And I heard a brilliant mind. Elizabeth tells me you devour books as quickly as Tom carves wood." She patted his hand before releasing it. "And you’re an artist as well? Birdie says you carved these beautiful new ornaments."

Erich simply inclined his head, "It was a small contribution."

"Oh, come now, they are exquisite. You have a gift. He's a treasure, Lizzie. You and Tom are very lucky."

Elizabeth forced a smile while a knot of unease tightened in her stomach. Erich's charm was undeniable, smooth and sweet like honey, and it was clear he was playing his part with determination. But, just that... the intensity of his want to endear himself to her... was only something a beast could have. Looking for crumbs.

The silence of the ordeal gave her multiple reasons to sip her wine despite the abnormal taste of it. 

There was a book Elizabeth read when she was young. She couldn’t remember the name of it, but she knew an opossum was stalking a bird and her nest. To eat the precious eggs, he had to kill the mother bird. Opossums blended in the snow, much like Erich's skin against the white walls, and his eyes were the moon, his presence nocturnal like those hunters.

Why had she ever likened him to light when he had closer relations to the dark?

The answer was obvious: Erich could make himself anything. He was hot then cold, good then not, sure and uncertain.

It made her hair fall out.

Just then, Tom clapped a hand on Erich's shoulder. "Good of you to join us, son. Come on, there's something I want to show everyone."

He led the group toward the Nativity scene in the corner, festooned with handmade ornaments.

"As you all know, I was assigned to carve a new adaptation of the Magi for our church. The deadline was proving formidable, but with Erich's help, we've made progress I could only have dreamed of. His attention to detail is magnificent..."

Elizabeth knew he was saying more—his mouth was still moving— but all his words slurred together. After this speech, he would disappear again, and she would be alone with the role of entertaining the guests like a jester in her own castle.

And, you know fucking what? If he didn't bother to listen to her, why should she listen to him? As guests murmured in admiration, Elizabeth took another sip of her drink.

"He has an anxious tic— he takes a sip of his drink every time he speaks. Or he bites his nails. Or picks at his lips. He always needs something to touch. I noticed you do the same."

Goddamn it. He was right.

She still had yet to figure out Erich's intentions, but she knew that by becoming indispensable, admired, and loved, he was weaving himself into every part of her life. It would make it harder to leave. 

The opossum watches the bird, figuring out patterns to know the best time to eat its young. But ironically, it's the young who are the perpetrators in her nest. 

As the wine flowed within the party, Elizabeth found herself pulled into a circle of friends. Their first question was where they could get more wine. Though the usual taste didn't appease her, it did so to many other guests. Hansel was the one who poured the drinks, and he was nowhere to be seen.

Where did he go? Probably hiding.

"Elizabeth! There you are!" A voice called, pulling her from her thoughts. It was Clara, a childhood friend. "Come join us! We're talking about what scared us as kids."

Reluctantly, Elizabeth drifted toward the edge of the group, her glass trembling in her hand. Her feet were not moving on their own. Some magical force was enabling her.

"I was just telling everyone how you used to be petrified of the dark," Clara said with a laugh. "Remember? You wouldn't even go to the bathroom at night without one of us standing guard at the door."

A few people chuckled softly. Elizabeth felt a familiar heat rise in her cheeks, but she shook her head. "No, it wasn't that. It was never the dark I was afraid of. It was being alone in it."

Being alone meant being defenseless. Before the loneliness came back for revenge, stronger than ever, slowly biting her shoulder and reaching down to pinch at everything else to torture her as it gobbled her up.

She looked across the room and met Erich's gaze. There was no smile nor frown. His expression was completely blank, as if he felt nothing but everything at once. He was at the center, with his disciples leaning in at odd, unnatural angles, their faces upturned and mouths agape in adoration. 

And truly, she once thought of him as a savior, but one of silver coins for eyes. 

Elizabeth turned away from the sight before it burned her eyes, and she saw Helga struggling on the couch, squirming by the fire. Nobody was paying attention to her, with logic blocked by the wine. 

"Are you alright?" She asked her, "Is the room too warm?"

"Lizzie, darling. Yes, I'm okay. Just the music is a little loud, don't you think?"

"I'll tell Tom to turn it down a notch." If I can find him.

Helga chuckled lightly, "I actually think a change of scenery would do me some good. I'm still staying in the guest bedroom on the third floor, correct? With Erich living here, I don't know if things have changed..."

Of course not. He'll be rid of tonight one way or another.

"Yes, you're staying. Let's get you settled up there."

With gentle care, Elizabeth stood and offered her hand to help her rise from the couch. They leaned on each other as they steered through the crowded rooms and to the elevator.

As they reached the landing on the third floor, she felt Helga's jaded exhale. It felt so scary getting old, Elizabeth thought, but she swallowed that large pill as she pushed open the guest bedroom door, where the fairy lights draped constellations across the walls and ceilings. The sheets beckoned with the allure of rest, and their spell had her mother's eyes shimmering.

"My dear, you adorned your place beautifully. Must be nice having a fresh set of hands to help you out on the holidays, I'm sure." She shuffled to the checkered mattress.

Elizabeth ignored the revolting dread as she tucked the covers around Helga's shoulders. "I'll check on you in a little while. Need anything?"

Helga shook her head, but gave her a warm smile, "You're always taking care of me. Thank you, Lizzie."

Lizzie. That would've made a great name for a daughter. Or Nina. Or Anna.

Suddenly, at the mention of that name, even internally, she felt Erich's presence nearby. As if that name summons him as well as his own…

Pay it no mind, she told herself. That's what her father said when she cried about the boogeyman late at night. If you don't give him attention, he gets bored and leaves.

She closed the door to the guest bedroom and descended the stairs.

About half an hour passed, and a certain queerness rolled through the house. Elizabeth braced herself for a wall. She would never commit the sin of getting drunk just off of wine. She literally only had one glass that she sipped very slowly. 

But the feeling was not hers alone this time. She noticed Mrs. Becker grasp her husband’s arm. "Do you feel a little queasy?”

She watched him nod as they slumped on the couch to catch their aging breaths.

Thick fog settled behind Elizabeth’s eyes, but her mind fought to cut through it as she observed the surroundings more. Another couple led themselves towards the conservatory. Tom's men stumbled out of the kitchen and danced until they died on the carpet, spilling their drinks.

It was happening too fast, affecting too many people.

And through it all, Erich remained on an island of unnerving calm. He took a slow sip from his glass, his eyes meeting Elizabeth's over the rim. There was no warmth in his gaze. There was no faking. He was genuinely, perfectly fine. He just turned eighteen in April, which was the legal age at which he could buy alcohol. There was no way a teenager was surpassing an adult in wine tolerance, but that seemed to be the case when Elizabeth was tumbling over imaginary bumps.

The Lord burned holes through her head again. If He continued, the lasers would reach the brain, and she would perish. But then Erich would win.

She called out Tom's name, but he didn’t come running. He was nowhere to be seen. Pushing herself off the wall, legs like leaden stilts, she made her way toward the drinks table. Her eyes scanned the collection of bottles. Most were open, some nearly empty.

But then she saw it.

Tucked slightly behind the others was a single bottle of the same vintage, but with its foil seal broken and the cork firmly in place. And next to it, the specific bottle Handsel had been pouring from all evening, now almost empty. 

There was no immunity. Erich just wasn't drinking the same wine as everyone else. 

The room spun, but not from the drug. There was no accident occuring... He was poisoning everyone.

But Hansel was the one responsible for pouring the drinks. It was a duty that suited him perfectly since he abstained from drinking. As the only sober individual, he was assigned with carrying the beverages and preventing any spills on the carpet. Did this position render him aware of the poisoned bottle? 

Was this their scheme all along? Could that explain their furtive conversations? Their whisperings... their meetings in the woods where nobody dared to follow? And when Elizabeth caught them that one time, was that why he was so dismissive? Who knows how many such meetings had transpired in those woods, perhaps under the cover of night, while he was meant to be home?

Right when she thanked God her mother wasn't a drinker, her heart sank into her stomach. Her mother. She had to check on her mother. Hansel and Erich were missing from the main floor. They were likely heading upstairs to ensure the job was finished. Her vision swayed as she floundered about the staircase, the festive music distorting as she ran up the bumpy road.

Stars appeared in the corner of her vision after she made it up the flight. Her brain felt like it would swell beyond the capacity of her skull and now her dehydration was too obvious to ignore. Again, her stomach lurched and gurgled.

The second-floor hallway stretched to an impossible length, and she groaned walking along the sticky path. As she passed a room, she heard noises from inside. It was not from sleep, but of gasps and murmurs.

From her vantage point, she saw them. Tom and a woman she’s never seen before, entwined on the plush rug, their bodies moving in a grotesquely intimate rhythm. Tom's hands roamed over the woman's body, caressing her skin like a map. The woman responded with soft gasps and her eyes fluttered shut in pleasure. Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted this," She heard him murmur.

Tom's lips brushed against the woman's neck, leaving a trail of kisses that ignited fire.

"All I want you to understand is that ignorance is a curse. You remain oblivious and reluctant to seek the truth, which amplifies your anxiety. Explore what transpires in your home."

Erich knew. He had always known... That was what he warned her. That was why Tom was late or why there were sudden accidents... It was all a fucking lie.

Tears welled in her eyes as she wrapped herself in a duvet of sorrow, the nausea adding to her misery.

Leaning against the cold hallway, still hearing the muffled sounds from the two, she finally understood.

Even after being at Hoffnung and Hände for a year, she still couldn't handle that damn ribbon when tying a knot. Erich would go to her and demonstrate again and again. There was a reason Elizabeth could never get the ribbon to agree with her.

Because she was the ribbon.

Erich never really hid himself. He spent a year softening her fibers with feigned sweetness, creasing her along her weakest folds: her loneliness, her failing marriage, her desperate want for a son. He had found every vulnerability and pressed down firmly. He knew she was blind and hopeless, and he used it. Had he yanked too hard, she would’ve snapped too quickly, which was why he was gentle. Those “gentle” pinches were his carefully placed words, his terrifying knowledge, the manipulations that isolated her until she was ready to be tied into any shape he desired. 

A golden star. Like the star that sat in her Christmas tree in the sitting room. She was looped into that shape. It was a long process, but the most rewarding. 

Elizabeth felt a new wave of panic with increased intensity and scrambled toward the stairs to the third floor. She had to get to her mother. She had to protect her.

As she reached the bottom of the staircase, a figure emerged from the shadows of the third floor. It was walking slowly down the stairs. Elizabeth froze, and her breath caught in her throat as the light eventually hit his face. It was Erich.

Oh, God no. 

He stopped a few steps from the bottom, and his head tilted in her direction. The dim lighting accentuated the luminescence of his bright azure, though his eyes glowed white more than anything, like the rest of his milky body. He looked less a boy and more an ancient, predatory entity in the skin of youth. The slow curve of his lips held no warmth. Just chilling, absolute knowledge.

He held the high ground, and he knew it.

She knew it too. He was a step above her. A step ahead.

Erich's shoulder brushed against hers as he passed. The contact sent a jolt of icy terror through her veins. The scent of cinnamon and pine surrounded him.

He continued without a glance back and faded into the festive noise of the party, leaving Elizabeth paralyzed at the foot of the stairs. With her hammering heart about ready to explode, she burst into the bedroom. 

"Mother!" Elizabeth gasped, "Are you okay?"

Helga reclined in her bed with a mug in her hands and a smile gracing her lips. The only indication that anything was amiss was the slight flush on her cheeks. She looked up to her daughter with a gentle crease forming between her brows. "Darling, what is it? Of course, I'm fine. Erich just came by and brought me some hot chocolate. He knows my throat has been feeling a little scratchy."

Hot chocolate. Erich. The perfect Trojan horse. 

"Hot chocolate?" She repeated.

"Yes, isn't that sweet? You're doing mighty well at raising him, young lady."

She swiftly reached out and took the mug from her mother's hands. The warmth of the ceramic felt dangerous on her skin, and she suppressed instinct telling her to drop it.

"What are you doing?"

"How about I just get you some water?”

"But I haven't finished it..."

"Just trust me. Water will be better. Let me get you some."

The mug was a venomous snake. It didn’t even make it to the sink and went straight to the trash. She couldn't infect the water with its demonic presence. If she had, the venom would have spread through the floors and walls, suffocating the residents.

Elizabeth rushed up the stairs with filled water. 

She had one objective. She couldn't care less that Erich mingled with her friends, that Tom was with another woman, or that her own soul could kill her at that moment. Hell, she couldn't focus on Hansel's whereabouts, nor did she want to. All that mattered as her mother. 

Those sunflowers should have never been desecrated.

But regret melted when she delivered the cup to Helga, and she gratefully accepted it.

But the relief, too, was fleeting.  

Helga took a sip, but as she lowered the glass, her eyes went wide. A violent tremor shot through her body. The glass fell, shattering on the floor. Her back arched impossibly, and thick, white foam bubbled from the corners of her mouth as a seizure took hold.

Elizabeth dropped to her knees beside the bed, but her drugged mind could not find her face. She saw seven heads and fourteen white eyes. "Mom! Help! Someone help!"

She bungled out of the room with misty vision blurring her way. She tripped down the stairs and knew her legs would bear bruises, but she clumsily pressed onward anyway, where people were hollering and screaming in the sitting room. She wanted to rip everyone's mouths off, toss them out the windows, or tear off her ears. She could force-feed that blonde sadist her words.

"Call an ambulance!"

Suddenly, Tom grasped her shoulder. He breathed heavily with a disheveled hair. He frankly looked like shit, but so did everyone in the mayhem. "Liz, what is it? What's wrong?"

Liz. What a stupid nickname. "Mom! It's Mom! She needs to go to the hospital! Get her right now, please." She sobbed, falling to the carpet wet with spilled alcohol. She thought she might choke on her spit.

"Okay, okay. Honey, you're not in a condition to drive. I'll take you both."

No, don't take me. Erich will burn our house down if left alone. 

"Just take her!"

"You're not coming?—"

"For once, listen to your fucking wife, Tom. You'd better be out the door in three."

He was gone in two.

The pounding of her heart was a windowless and doorless room, but somehow all of her guests escaped, so only the skull-storm affected her. Oh, how it boomed, the electricity striking blind, her limbs trembling for so long...

Fear and trembling. She never changed. Never learned. It was all she knew how to do.

From above, Erich watched her flail with the coldest glare. 

The opossum had slain the mother bird and now lounged in her nest, poised to feast upon her young. The monster was hungry. It had been hungry for a long, agonizing while.

“Get the fuck away from me.” She snarled.

He gripped her face in her hands, and although she longed to pull away, she couldn't summon the strength. “Can you see me?” He asked. 

Elizabeth refused to answer, but it did not matter if she did, for moments later, there was darkness.

***

The first thing Elizabeth registered was the taste of sour wine in her mouth. The second was the oppressive silence. She was on the couch with a thick blanket tucked around her. The fireplace crackled softly in the hearth; its gentle popping was the only sound in the house.

She sat up, the blanket pooling in her lap. The living room was immaculate. The punch bowl on the table was gone. The scattered glasses, the plates of half-eaten food, the crumpled napkins... All vanished. The floor was vacuumed, the pillows on the other sofas were fluffed, and the Christmas tree stood serene and untouched. It was as if the party never happened.

Did it happen?

Was this akin to what happened at the store? A hallucination? Was it all just a psychotic break where she'd imagined an entire Christmas party?

Burying her face in her hands, she begged, "God, please, let it be true," but there was no way it was. She could visit the memories. Her mother's face is slack-jawed, and her eyes are rolling back. Tom is kissing another woman's neck. Mrs. Becker is lying on the sofa. All thuds combine into one clamorous eruption as the guests hit the floor, including herself. The wine, the dark, ruby-red liquid Hansel poured, substitutes for their blood. It is felicitous for Erich's overtly theatrical flair.

Oh God. The wine. He drugged them. He drugged everyone.

Her breath caught in her chest when she completed her time-travelling. She had finally, irrevocably lost her mind.

She curled into a ball on the sofa, digging her face into her knees, the fabric dampening with her tears. She bit at her nails, tearing the skin at the cuticles until they bled. For minutes (or hours, or years), she remained there, a weeping tangle of horror in the silent house, the fire casting shadows that danced like monster claws.

Then, a voice cut through the quiet, startling her.

"Evening, Miss. I set the table for you." It was Erich, and it came from the dining room.

With trepidation, she hobbled to the sound in her wine-soaked dress. A feast lay before her on the table. Erich had proven himself a generous host when he felt it was appropriate.

“Is my mother dead?” She dared to ask.

“No.”

But could she believe him?

“Is Tom dead?”

“They’re both at the hospital. They’re still alive.”

“Am I going to die?”

“Sit down, Miss. You haven’t eaten all night.”

Elizabeth tended to neglect herself during such dark moments, and Erich possessed omniscience, so, of course, he knew. 

Against her better judgment, she settled into her chair. She was a sinner that couldn't fight him.

"He still hasn't shown..."

"Your husband doesn't love you," Erich stated flatly.

"I know."

She recalled the sight of him kissing that woman, and how the fervor of that embrace was far more passionate than any kiss he bestowed upon her. This woman, whoever she was, wherever their paths crossed, could offer him everything he desired.

"You're willing to live with that?"

"I have no one else."

Just like that, she was an open book. It only took Erich a few sentences. Why did she so readily divulge her secrets to him, especially after uncovering the truth of his nature? How had she become so foolish?

She was all alone. Her greatest fear.

"I was so close to losing him last year. I just... I just can't."

When she heard no reply, Elizabeth studied him.

Eirch was staring at the cross hanging on the wall with peculiar fascination. It was the same crucifix he looked at during his first visit. "Were you raised to believe in God, Miss? Or did you find it yourself?"

"I was raised."

"So was I. By the same people who nearly beat me to death. So tell me, what comfort do you find in your religion?"

"I find comfort in the belief that there’s a greater good that guides us."

"And yet, isn’t it ironic? The very faith that promises salvation has been the catalyst for so much suffering. Are you content with being associated with massacres dedicated to your Savior? In surrounding those who hurt others in the name of God?" 

His stare shook her, like the toxin of a tick.

"What are you?"

"Look at me." His tone carried an icy detachment far too mature for such a young man.

Before her, an apple gleamed on the table, its red skin glistening as if polished by an unseen hand.

"You need to eat." He gestured to her untouched plate, with only an apple accompanying it, "Eat it."

Elizabeth tried to refuse, but the urge was overpowering, like an invisible string was pulling her fingers closer to the fruit.

As she bit into the apple's flesh, she felt a shudder. The sweetness burst on her tongue, but it was mixed with bitterness that gnawed at the edges of her teeth. At that moment, she looked up and saw him.

Sure, he was the boy she had adopted, the boy she strove to abandon, but he wasn't Erich. He was something else entirely.

Her fingers quivered as she wiped a bit of juice from her chin, and when she raised her gaze, the surrounding world shifted. The lights dimmed, and garlands of green darkened. Tinsel glimmered like the scales of a serpent, and the carols wrapped into an uproar of whispers.

What she saw was not a boy, not a man, nor even a creature of flesh and blood. Words couldn't describe the thing he was. He was pure and utter terror. The manifestation of her deepest fears was a demon. His eyes— no— its eyes bore into her soul, fathomless in the way it unraveled the threads of sanity with each heartbeat.

"Can you see me now?" It asked. It was still Erich's voice. It was still Erich's body. But it was not Erich speaking.

The walls of her mind closed around her.

"Why?" Her voice barely rose above her surroundings, but Erich definitely heard her, "Why did you come here?"

"I'm only what you prayed for."

"You're nothing like what I prayed for."

"You're turning down a gift from God? Are you rejecting him?"

"You're not a gift from God. You're the Devil."

Possessing more patience than anyone could hold, he walked from his side of the table over to her. Leaning down, he whispered, "Merry Christmas, Miss." 

The young man kissed her cheek. She froze as his lips touched her.

She wondered if Adam and Eve had heard the same voice in their ears. Were they too victims of his doing?

The serpent was constricting around her.

Where was Tom? He was supposed to be home... The opossum, the serpent, the demon, the devil masquerading as human, kidnapped him and devoured him whole. He was dead, she just knew it, and she was sure to be too. And perhaps all the partygoers met the same fate. Before he found a way to erase his existence, he needed to eat the entire kingdom to soothe his needs.

Elizabeth was destined to fail from the beginning because she clung to an idea that was dead.

Suddenly, the front door slammed shut, jolting her from her thoughts. She glanced over her shoulder and found a figure arising to the light. It was... Hansel?

Why was he here? He should no longer have the key to the house.

"Hansel? What are you doing?"

"Erasing the past just like he instructed me to, Miss."

Erich stood on the porch, waiting for the deafening bang to resonate through the house. When it finally came, rattling the windows and inflating the winter air, he laid a rose on the edge of the porch.

It was almost time for him to see her. His next stop was Düsseldorf, which was only three hours from Heidelberg, and he was turning twenty in less than two years.