But my carefully laid plans remain tucked beneath the trees.
I never even get to put them in their stands.
As soon as I flip the sign from Closed to Open, we're inundated with a steady stream of customers.
I should be grateful for the foot traffic, but they're the sort who ask endless questions and buy exactly nothing, testing the positivity I'm maintaining by sheer force of will.
Usually, I don't mind the conversation, but today one woman spends fifteen minutes on speakerphone, another tries to sell me on some hair mask she's been using religiously for ten years, and a middle-aged man in New Balances huffs and puffs his way through the furniture section.
"You don't have any unassembled nightstands?" he calls, hands on his hips, one off-white sneaker tapped to the side.
This isn't IKEA, I want to snap. But I bury the urge deep, in the same place I stash my grief for the blueberry Danish, and fix a smile on my face.
Silver living, I tell myself. Silver lining, silver lining, silver lining.
"No, we don't sell unassembled antiques."
I'm proud of myself when my tone stays even.
"But we do have some really lovely pieces."
By the time the sun is melting through the back windows, I'm exhausted. My knee hurts, and not a single decoration is up in the shop besides a half-hearted sprig of mistletoe over the back storage closet.
I flip the sign on the door and pat one of the trees, dragging my fingers along the prickly branches.
"Don't worry, pal. Tomorrow is a new day."
Hopefully a better one. Hopefully one where I can string lights on my trees.
Wind whistles off the water as I lock the shop door behind me, the ornate brass key heavy in the palm of my hand.
Another one of Aunt Matilda's whimsies that I haven't had the heart to update.
I press the key into my pocket and turn up the street, the lanterns lining each side of the road slowly flickering to life in the settling dusk.
There are no wayward cats on my walk home.
No misdelivered packages or crumpled heaps of oversized Christmas decorations against the porch.
It's just my quiet craftsman house on a side street of Annapolis and a door that requires a firm kick to the bottom right corner to open.
The glow of my tree welcomes me as I drop my things in a heap by the entryway, peeling off my tights.
I tug on my favorite pajamas—a matching red and white flannel set with dancing reindeer—and tie my curls back into a ponytail.
Tonight, I'll soothe the day's disappointments with *White Christmas* and peppermint tea. Tomorrow I'll try again.
Christmas has always been my favorite time of year.
It's the only time it feels like magic might be real, hovering somewhere close to the surface.
Like you can reach out and touch it. Cup it between frostbitten fingertips like sugarplum kisses and popcorn strung on ribbon.
Crackling fires beneath the hearth and gingerbread cookies fresh from the oven.
Christmas has always felt right. Christmas has always felt true.
I sink into the comfort of my couch and watch the movie, unwrapping a candy cane while Betty and Judy sing about sisters. Something thick and heavy settles at the back of my throat. Sisters.
Growing up, my sister and I used to lie on the floor with our heads tucked together and watch this scene over and over.
We'd promise each other that we'd be the same way—laughing, smiling, dancing—together, always.
We watched our mother and our aunt tear into each other until their relationship was a pile of ash.
We knew we wanted something different. Something better.
But the last time I talked to my sister, cherry blossoms were on the trees and tears streaked her cheeks. Somehow, despite our best intentions, we managed to become exactly like them.
I took one path. Samantha took another.
I shove the thought aside. Today is December 1. It's not a day for painful memories. It's a day for Danny Kaye, peppermint candies, and my coziest socks.
Tradition. Hope. Kindness.
I'm so busy trying to choke down tea and convince myself that I'm fine that I don't notice the important things.
Namely, the strange man in my living room.
It's the scrape of his boots against the floor that finally catches my attention, his shadow looming large in the glow of my Christmas tree.
He clears his throat. My head snaps in his direction, and I—
I scream. I scream until my lungs burn and hurl the closest projectile I have. The TV remote sails past his shoulder, landing next to an ornament of a lighthouse.
He doesn't so much as flinch, gazing at me steadily from the shadows.
"Hello, Harriet," he says easily.
His voice is rough. There's a faint accent I can't pinpoint or recognize. I don't recognize a single thing about him, most of him hidden in the shadows. All I can make out is a strong jaw and broad body, his hands held loose at his sides.
I press myself farther into the couch. My breath goes shallow. Every murder mystery podcast I have ever listened to has started exactly like this.
The stranger raises his hands, palms facing out.
"Don't be alarmed."
Don't be alarmed. Okay.
Says the man who is standing—uninvited—in the middle of my living room.
He moves closer and light dances over his angular face.
His jaw is brushed with scruff, heavier over his top lip.
The shadow of a mustache, if he were to grow it out fully.
He drags one hand through his messy, windswept hair.
I grip my candy cane. It's not sharp enough to stab him with, but I've got enough adrenaline coursing through my system to probably cause a little damage.
"What do you want?" I breathe.
"I want to help you." He moves closer. "It's not too late, Harriet.
You can mend your ways."
I blink. "Is this, like, a door-to-door thing? I'm not interested in joining your cult, thank you."
His face remains blank. My eyes dart to the door and back again. "How did you get into my house?"
"I—"
"More importantly, when can you leave?"
"I don't—"
"I don't have anything valuable." I drag my teeth over my bottom lip. "Actually, that's a lie. That gingerbread house by your feet is hand-painted. You could probably get something for it on the black market."
He studies the gingerbread house in question, eyebrows raised.
"Black market," he repeats slowly.
"You can have it," I whisper. "Please leave now."
He shakes his head, dragging his attention back to me on the couch. His eyes linger a beat too long on the patterned material of my pajama bottoms. He drags his hand over his jaw. "I have no interest in your gingerbread house."
"What do you have interest in, then? Murder?"
Good job, Harriet, my brain chirps. Very subtle.
"I have no interest in murder either." The light shifts over his face. He is all angles and sharp, knowing eyes. His jaw firms and he tilts his chin up. "I'm interested in your soul," he says ominously, and my stomach lurches up to my throat.
I pause, waiting for him to continue. He doesn't. "See, that sounds a little bit like murder."
"It's not murder."
"It really, really sounds like murder."
"It's not," he insists. "I'm not—"
"It's just, if you're not a murderer, you should really work on your presentation because—"
"I'm here for your reckoning." He cuts me off quickly, raising his voice.
He sounds frustrated, like none of this is going to plan.
Good. That makes two of us. His lips flatten into a line and he gives me a look, something flickering behind his eyes.
A flame. Or a candle, almost. "I'm a Ghost of Christmas Past, Harriet. Your reclamation awaits."
My jaw drops. My candy cane falls to the floor.
On the first day of December, the universe gave to me—
A string of bad luck and a… ghost, apparently.