December 21, Saturday

Moonlight silvered the headstones as I watched through binoculars from my bedroom window, wrapped in one of Sawyer's forgotten flannel shirts. The winter solstice celebration in the graveyard was smaller than previous gatherings—I counted only six figures in dark robes instead of the usual dozen or more. I opened the window a few inches in hopes of hearing some of the ceremony.

Tilda stood in the center of their circle, her arms raised to the night sky. Even from this distance, I could see the change in her. Her movements were gentler, less commanding. More about connection than control.

I picked up my phone, curious about the ritual I was witnessing. The winter solstice, according to my search, celebrated the rebirth of the Sun God, marking the shortest day of the year. A time of endings and beginnings.

How fitting.

The temperature outside hovered in the mid-fifties—positively balmy for the first day of winter. I thought of New York, of the bitter winds that would knife between buildings and the mountains of gray snow that would pile up on sidewalks. In just over a week, I'd be trading Irving's gentle winter for that harsh reality.

But the weather would be the least of my adjustments.

I pulled Sawyer's shirt tighter around me, breathing in the fading traces of his scent. Three days without him felt like an eternity. How would I manage when I was back in Manhattan, with hundreds of miles between us?

My phone buzzed with a text from Sawyer: Miss you. Should be done with training early tomorrow.

I smiled.  You're missed, too. Satan's been pouting.

Just Satan?

I sent back a pink heart emoji, then returned to watching the ceremony. The robed figures had joined hands, moving in a slow circle around Tilda. Their chanting carried faintly on the night air—something about light returning, about hope being reborn.

There was no power outage this time. No strange mists or eerie sensations. Just people celebrating their faith under the winter stars.

How different from my first weeks here, when every shadow had seemed to hold a threat, every ceremony a potential curse. Now I understood that magic worked in subtler ways—through connection, through healing, through love.

The celebration was winding down, the participants drifting away in twos and threes. Tilda remained behind, her face turned up to the moon. After a moment, she looked directly at my window and raised her hand in greeting.

I waved back, no longer afraid of being caught watching. We were all part of Irving's story now, each playing our own role.

Even if my chapter was coming to an end.

Satan bleated from his pen—his nightly protest at being confined. The black rooster answered with an indignant crow.

The familiar sounds of my temporary home.

Soon I'd be back among taxi horns and subway rumbles, elevator dings and the endless percussion of millions of footsteps on concrete. I'd have my career back, my reputation restored, my life returned to its proper orbit.

But something would be missing. Someone.

In the graveyard, Tilda had gone, leaving the headstones to stand sentinel in the moonlight. The winter solstice marked the year's darkest day, but also the moment when light began to return.

I wondered what light would follow the darkness of leaving Irving.  ~