Part 1

I checked my watch for the third time. Forty-five minutes.

I was sitting in one of Chicago’s finest restaurants, surrounded by the hum of Christmas Eve joy. Crystal glasses clinked, families laughed, and the smell of roasted turkey and expensive wine filled the air. And there I was—Nicholas Grant, 39 years old, a tech consultant with a net worth most people only dream of—sitting alone at a table for two.

I felt like a fool.

My younger sister, Catherine, had set this up. “You need to get back out there, Nick,” she’d insisted. It had been five years since my failed engagement. I had buried myself in work, building an empire but building no life. Catherine had arranged a blind date with a friend of her yoga instructor. Sophie. She told me Sophie was kind, intelligent, and “needed a little light in her life.”

I almost canceled. I had contracts to review, a penthouse to manage, and a bottle of scotch waiting for me at home. But Catherine’s voice had that pleading tone I couldn’t refuse. So, I put on my suit, braved the winter wind, and came here.

To be stood up.

I signaled the waiter for another glass of Pinot Noir, ready to ask for the check. I was done. I had checked her out online briefly—no social media presence, which was rare. Maybe she Googled me, saw the money, and got intimidated. or maybe she just didn’t care.

Just as I was sliding my credit card out of my wallet, the heavy oak door at the front of the restaurant swung open, letting in a swirl of icy wind and snow.

Every head turned.

A woman stood there, looking like she had just walked through a hurricane. Her cream-colored coat was worn thin, dampened by the melting snow. Her hair, wavy and brown, was windblown and disheveled. But it wasn’t just her appearance that silenced the room.

She was holding the hand of a little boy, maybe four or five years old. He was shivering, his small red jacket looking far too light for a Chicago winter.

The hostess looked at them with a mix of confusion and disdain, pointing vaguely in my direction. As they walked toward me, I saw the look on the woman’s face. It wasn’t just embarrassment; it was devastation. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her makeup smudged from what looked like fresh tears.

She stopped at my table, breathless.

“Mr. Grant?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I am… I am so incredibly sorry.”

I stood up, instinctively buttoning my jacket. “Sophie?”

“I know I’m late,” she rushed out, her hands shaking as she gripped the boy’s hand tighter. “I know I shouldn’t have come. I know this is… inappropriate. Please, I just wanted to apologize in person because my phone died.”

She looked ready to bolt. The little boy looked up at me with wide, terrified brown eyes, hiding behind his mother’s leg.

“Please,” I said, my voice softer than I expected. “Sit down.”

“No, I can’t,” she stammered, tears welling up again. “My babysitter canceled at the last minute. My car… it wouldn’t start. I tried to call a cab, but I didn’t have enough cash on me. We took two buses. We walked the last six blocks. I just… I didn’t want you to think I was rude by not showing up. But I can’t stay. Look at us.”

She gestured to her wet coat, her shivering son, the puddle forming around her boots on the pristine floor.

I looked at her. Really looked at her. Beneath the exhaustion and the stress, she had a delicate, resilient beauty. But more than that, I saw a level of desperation I hadn’t encountered in my world of boardrooms and country clubs.

“Sophie,” I said firmly, pulling out the chair opposite me. “You took two buses in a snowstorm just to tell me you couldn’t make it?”

“I gave my word to Catherine,” she said, her voice barely audible.

That hit me. Integrity. In a world where people flaked on million-dollar deals over a text message, this woman dragged herself through a blizzard with a child because she promised she would be here.

I looked at the boy. He was eyeing the bread basket on the table like it was gold.

“Sit,” I commanded, but with a smile. “I’m not letting you go back out into that cold without dinner. Both of you.”

Sophie hesitated, looking at the white tablecloth, then at me. “I… I don’t have money for this place.”

“I didn’t ask you to pay,” I said gently. I lifted the boy—Owen, I later learned—into the chair next to her. “I asked you to keep me company. It’s Christmas Eve. I hate eating alone.”

She finally sat, her shoulders slumping as the warmth of the room hit her. The waiter approached, looking skeptical.

“Hot chocolate for the young man,” I ordered immediately. “And brings us the menu. We’re staying.”

As Sophie took off her coat, I noticed her hands were red and chapped from the cold. She looked at me, shame burning in her eyes, but I held her gaze. I had no idea then, but the next two hours were about to change my life more than hers.

Part 2

The waiter, a man named Henri who had served me countless times over the last decade, approached the table with a stiff upper lip. He placed a booster seat on the velvet chair with the precision of a bomb disposal technician, his eyes flicking momentarily to Owen’s damp, muddy sneakers.

“For the young gentleman,” Henri said, his tone perfectly polite yet radiating a subtle disapproval that made the air around us feel thinner.

Sophie noticed it. Of course she did. She shrank a little in her seat, pulling the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands. “Thank you,” she whispered, keeping her eyes on the tablecloth.

“Henri,” I said, catching the waiter’s eye before he could turn away. “Bring us the tasting menu. But modify it for the boy. Chicken tenders, fries, maybe some fruit? And bring it out immediately. He’s hungry.”

Henri paused, glancing at the Michelin-star menu in his hand, then at me. “Very good, Mr. Grant.”

When he left, silence settled over the table, heavy and thick. To my left, a couple was arguing in hushed tones about a vacation to Aspen. To my right, a business associate was laughing too loudly at a joke that wasn’t funny. And here, in the center of my meticulously curated life, sat a woman who looked like she was waiting for a trap door to open beneath her.

“You don’t have to do this,” Sophie said, her voice tight. She was rubbing her hands together, trying to warm them. “I know how this looks. The struggling single mom crashing the millionaire’s Christmas. It’s a cliché, isn’t it?”

“Life is full of clichés, Sophie,” I said, pouring water into her glass. “That doesn’t mean they aren’t real people living them. Drink. You’re shivering.”

She took a sip, her hand trembling slightly against the crystal. “I promised Catherine. That’s the only reason I’m sitting here. She’s been… she’s been the only person in months who looked at me like I was a human being and not just a walking debt statistic. I couldn’t bail on her brother.”

“Catherine has a habit of collecting strays,” I said with a self-deprecating smile. “I should know. I was one of them after my fiancé left.”

Sophie looked up, surprised. “She told me you were successful. She didn’t mention… that.”

“Success is a great insulator,” I admitted. “It keeps you warm, it keeps you safe, but it also keeps you untouched. I haven’t had a real conversation in… well, a long time.”

Just then, Owen, who had been wide-eyed staring at the chandelier, pointed a small, chubby finger at my wrist. “Is that a train clock?”

I blinked, looking down at my Patek Philippe. “A train clock?”

“It has gears,” Owen said, his voice gaining a little volume. “Like the wheels on a steam engine. Choo choo.”

Sophie reached out to hush him, but I waved her off. I unclasped the watch—worth more than the car she had probably tried to start tonight—and slid it across the table. Sophie gasped, terrified he would drop it, but Owen treated it with the reverence of a holy relic. He peered at the exposed movement on the back, watching the tiny oscillating weight spin.

“It is like a train,” I agreed, leaning in. “It keeps everything moving on time. Do you like trains, Owen?”

“I love them,” he breathed, not looking up. “I have a wooden one. But the wheel is broken.”

“Owen,” Sophie warned gently.

“It’s okay,” I said, my eyes fixed on the boy. “Broken wheels can be fixed.”

The food arrived, and the dynamic shifted again. When the plate of chicken and fries was placed before Owen, he didn’t grab it. He looked at his mother first. A silent question. Is this okay? Is this safe?

Sophie nodded, a small, tight motion. “Go ahead, baby. Eat slowly.”

She watched him take the first bite before she even looked at her own plate—a delicate arrangement of scallops and truffle foam. I saw her throat work as she swallowed back emotion. I realized then that she wasn’t just cold; she was hungry. Not the kind of hungry you get when you miss lunch, but the kind of chronic, low-level hunger that comes from skipping meals so your kid can have a second helping.

“Eat, Sophie,” I said softly. “Please.”

She picked up her fork, her manners impeccable despite the circumstances. “I’m a medical transcriptionist,” she said, answering the question I hadn’t asked yet, needing to fill the silence with her resume, her worth. “I type fast. 90 words per minute. I work for three different services. It’s just… the rates have dropped. And then the rent went up in October. And then the transmission blew on the Ford.”

She was rattling off disasters like a grocery list.

“And Owen’s father?” I asked, treading carefully.

She paused, a piece of scallop halfway to her mouth. “He wasn’t ready to be a father. He left when I was four months pregnant. Said he needed to ‘find himself.’ I think he found himself in Florida with a bartender. We haven’t seen a dime.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. It felt inadequate.

“Don’t be,” she said, a flash of steel entering her eyes. “I have Owen. He’s the best thing that ever happened to me. We’re a team. It’s just… tonight. Tonight was the breaking point. I wanted to be a person tonight, Nicholas. Not a mom, not a debtor, not a transcriptionist. Just a woman having dinner. And I failed at that, too.”

“You haven’t failed,” I said, feeling a sudden, fierce protectiveness rise in my chest. “You showed up. Do you know how many people wouldn’t have? You fought through a blizzard to keep a promise to a stranger. That’s not failure, Sophie. That’s grit.”

She looked at me, really looked at me, and for the first time, the defensive wall cracked. A tear slipped down her cheek, and she quickly wiped it away. “The wine is delicious,” she said, changing the subject. “I haven’t had wine in three years.”

We talked for another hour. I found myself telling her things I hadn’t told anyone—about the hollowness of the penthouse, about the pressure of the merger I was handling, about the fact that I hated Christmas because it highlighted the empty chairs at my table. She listened, not with the sycophantic nodding of my employees, but with genuine empathy.

When the check came, I snatched it up before it even hit the table. Sophie flinched.

“I can’t… I can’t contribute,” she whispered, shame coloring her cheeks again.

“If you reach for your purse, I’m walking out and leaving you to do the dishes,” I joked, trying to lighten the mood.

She offered a weak smile. “Thank you. For the food. For… not looking at us like we were dirt.”

“Ready to go?” I asked.

She nodded, waking Owen, who had fallen asleep with a half-eaten fry in his hand. She bundled him into his thin red jacket. I frowned at the coat. It was barely lined.

We walked to the front door. The restaurant had emptied out, the staff preparing to close for the holiday. When the valet opened the heavy door, a wall of white hit us. The snow hadn’t stopped; it had intensified. The wind was howling down Michigan Avenue, biting and cruel.

Sophie checked her phone. “Dead,” she muttered. “Okay. The bus stop is two blocks that way.”

“The bus?” I looked at the swirling vortex of snow. “Sophie, the buses are running on a holiday schedule, if they’re running at all. You’ll freeze before you get there.”

“We’ll be fine,” she said, though her voice wavered. She hoisted a sleepy, heavy Owen onto her hip. “We’re tough.”

“No,” I said. It wasn’t a suggestion. “My car is right here.”

The valet pulled up my S-Class Mercedes, the black paint gleaming under the streetlights. It looked like a spaceship compared to the slush-covered sedans parked on the street.

“Nicholas, I live on the South Side,” she said, shouting over the wind. “It’s forty minutes away. It’s not safe for this car.”

“Get in,” I said, opening the back door. “I don’t care where you live. I’m not watching you walk into a blizzard.”

She hesitated for one second, looking at Owen’s red, cold nose, and then she surrendered. She slid into the leather interior. I saw her body physically relax as the warmth of the cabin enveloped her.

I got in the driver’s seat—I had given my driver the night off—and glanced in the rearview mirror. Owen was already asleep again, his head on her lap. Sophie was looking out the window, her hand resting protectively on his back.

“Where to?” I asked softly.

She gave me the address. It was a zip code I knew from the news, not from experience.

The drive was quiet. The luxury of the car—the silence of the engine, the heated seats, the scent of expensive leather—seemed to amplify the disparity between us. I played soft jazz, trying to bridge the gap.

“He’s a good kid,” I said after a while.

“He’s my heart,” she replied, not taking her eyes off the snowy streets. “He deserves better than this. He deserves a yard. And a dad who stays. And a mom who isn’t always tired.”

“He seems pretty happy with the mom he has,” I countered.

“He’s five. He doesn’t know yet that we’re poor. He thinks camping in the living room with blankets is a game. He doesn’t know it’s because I can’t afford to turn the thermostat past 62.”

The confession hung in the air, stark and brutal.

As we moved away from the glittering skyline of downtown Chicago, the scenery changed. The Christmas lights dwindled, replaced by flickering streetlamps and darkened storefronts with metal grates. The snow seemed grayer here, piled up in neglected mounds. We passed abandoned lots and liquor stores.

“Turn right here,” she directed, her voice tense.

We pulled up to a brick apartment building that had seen better days—decades ago. A front window was boarded up. Graffiti covered the entryway.

I put the car in park and killed the engine. The silence that rushed in was heavy.

“Thank you, Nicholas,” she said, her hand on the door handle. “This is… this is more than anyone has done for us in a long time. Please, don’t get out. It’s cold.”

“I’m walking you to your door,” I said, unbuckling my seatbelt.

“You really shouldn’t,” she said, looking at my Italian suit, my watch, my shoes. “You stick out here.”

“Then I better stick close to you,” I said.

I got out, the wind whipping my coat. I opened the back door and reached for Owen. “I’ve got him.”

She started to protest, then stopped. She was too tired to argue. I lifted the boy; he was heavy, dead weight in his sleep. He smelled like baby shampoo and fried food. I held him close, shielding him from the wind.

We walked into the building. The buzzer system was ripped out of the wall with wires exposing. The vestibule smelled of stale cigarettes, old beer, and bleach. Sophie unlocked the inner door, and we began the climb.

Third floor. No elevator.

My breath misted in the stairwell. It was freezing inside the building, barely warmer than outside.

“Sorry about the smell,” she murmured, keeping her head down. “The neighbor smokes.”

“It’s fine,” I lied.

We reached apartment 3B. She fumbled with her keys—three different keys for three different locks. The sound of the tumblers clicking over echoed in the quiet hallway. It sounded like a prison.

She pushed the door open and flipped a switch. “Welcome to the palace,” she said, a bitter edge to her laugh.

I stepped inside, and that’s when the reality of her life hit me like a physical blow.

Part 3

The apartment was a studio, disguised as a one-bedroom by a hanging sheet. The floor was linoleum, cracked and peeling in the corners. The furniture was sparse—a sagging beige sofa that looked like a curb find, a small TV balancing on a milk crate, and a small round table with two mismatched chairs.

But it was the cold that got me. It was freezing.

“I’ll turn the heater up,” she said quickly, rushing to a small, whirring space heater in the corner. “It just takes a minute.”

I looked around. There were no decorations. No tinsel. No wreath. On the wall, taped up with Scotch tape, were three pieces of printer paper. Owen had drawn snowflakes on them with blue crayon. That was their Christmas.

I felt a lump form in my throat so large I thought I might choke. I looked at my own life—the twelve-foot Fraser Fir in my penthouse, decorated by a professional designer, surrounded by gifts from vendors and partners that I would never use.

“Where do you want him?” I asked, my voice rough.

“In here,” she whispered, pulling back the sheet.

Behind the curtain was a mattress on the floor. Not a bed frame. Just a mattress, neatly made with superhero sheets. Next to it was a laundry basket overflowing with clothes.

I laid Owen down gently. He stirred, mumbling, “Choo choo,” before curling into a ball. I pulled the duvet up to his chin. I noticed he was sleeping in his clothes; it was too cold for pajamas.

I stepped back out into the main room. Sophie was standing by the space heater, still in her coat, rubbing her arms. She looked terrified, as if me seeing this—the poverty, the lack, the struggle—stripped her of the last layer of dignity she had clung to at the restaurant.

“I know it’s not much,” she said, her voice shaking. “We’re saving up. Next month, I’m going to get a rug. And maybe… maybe a real bed frame.”

I looked at the table. There was a stack of unpaid bills. I could see the red “FINAL NOTICE” stamp on the gas bill from where I stood.

“Sophie,” I said.

“Please don’t look at me like that,” she snapped, her voice cracking. “Don’t look at me with pity. I work sixty hours a week. I type until my fingers cramp. I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, I don’t buy clothes. I do everything right. And it’s still… it’s still this.”

She gestured helplessly around the room.

“I tried to buy him a train set,” she said, the tears finally spilling over, hot and fast. “A cheap one. Twenty dollars at the thrift store. But I had to choose between the train and the antibiotics for his ear infection last week. I chose the medicine. And now it’s Christmas Eve, and he has nothing. He has absolutely nothing.”

She sank onto the sagging couch, burying her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving with silent, racking sobs. It was the sound of a woman who had been holding up the sky for too long and finally let her arms drop.

I stood there, feeling helpless. My money, my connections, my power—none of it meant anything in this freezing room.

I walked over and sat on the coffee table in front of her. I reached out and gently pulled her hands away from her face. Her eyes were swollen, filled with a raw, naked pain.

“He doesn’t have nothing,” I said firmly. “He has you.”

“I’m not enough,” she whispered. “Love doesn’t pay the electric bill, Nicholas. Love doesn’t buy winter boots.”

“No,” I agreed. “It doesn’t. But you have a skill set. You have drive. You have a brain that works faster than most people I employ.”

She looked at me, confused. “What?”

“I’m not going to give you money, Sophie,” I said.

She flinched, pulling back. “I didn’t ask you for money.”

“I know. And if I gave it to you, you’d hate yourself, and eventually, you might resent me. You’re too proud for charity.” I took a deep breath. “But I have a problem at my firm. A serious one.”

She wiped her nose, sniffing. “What kind of problem?”

“We consult for three of the largest hospital networks in the Midwest. We handle their data migration. Millions of patient records. My current team of transcription oversight is… slow. They miss details. They don’t understand the urgency. I need a Senior Quality Assurance Manager. Someone who knows medical terminology inside and out, who can spot an error from a mile away, and who is willing to work until the job is done.”

Sophie stared at me. The room was silent except for the whir of the space heater.

“Are you… are you making this up?” she asked suspiciously.

“I wish I were that creative,” I said. “I fired the last manager two days ago. The position is open. It pays $85,000 a year to start. Full medical. Full dental. 401k matching. And a signing bonus.”

Her mouth fell open. “$85,000?”

“Plus performance bonuses,” I added. “But I have to warn you. I’m a demanding boss. I expect perfection. I expect punctuality—snowstorms notwithstanding.”

“I…” She looked at the bills on the table, then at the curtain where her son lay sleeping. “I don’t have a degree in management.”

“I don’t care about a piece of paper,” I said, leaning in. “I care that you took two buses to keep a promise. I care that you put your son before your own hunger. I care that you’re fighting. That’s the person I want in the foxhole with me.”

She looked at me, her eyes wide, searching for the catch. “Why?”

“Because,” I stood up, buttoning my coat. “I think you’re the best candidate I’ve met all year. Come to my office on Monday. 9:00 AM. Bring your resume.”

I pulled a card from my pocket and placed it on the table next to the final notice.

“Nicholas,” she said, standing up. She looked terrified and hopeful all at once. “If I screw this up…”

“You won’t,” I said.

I walked to the door. I wanted to hug her. I wanted to tell her everything was going to be alright. But she didn’t need a hug right now. She needed respect.

“Lock the door after me,” I said.

“Nicholas?”

I turned back. She was standing in the middle of the sad, cold room, but she stood a little straighter.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Monday, Sophie. Don’t be late.”

I walked down the three flights of stairs, past the smell of smoke and bleach, and out into the cold. The wind bit at my face, but I didn’t feel it. I felt a fire burning in my chest. I got into my car, but before I drove away, I sat there for a moment, looking up at the third-floor window.

I saw a silhouette move against the dim light.

I pulled out my phone and called my personal assistant. It was 11:30 PM on Christmas Eve. She answered on the second ring.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Grant. Is everything okay?”

“Claire, I need you to do something for me first thing in the morning. I don’t care what it costs. I need a courier.”

“Sir? It’s Christmas morning.”

“I know. Make it happen.”

Part 4

Monday morning, 8:45 AM.

I was sitting in my office, pretending to read a report, but my eyes kept darting to the glass walls that overlooked the elevator bank.

My sister, Catherine, was sitting on the sofa in my office, sipping an espresso. I had told her the story over Christmas dinner. She hadn’t said “I told you so,” but she had smiled that infuriating, knowing smile for two days straight.

“She might not come,” I said, tapping my pen on the desk. “Maybe she thinks it was a joke. Maybe she got scared.”

“She’ll come,” Catherine said, not looking up from her magazine. “She has a son to feed, Nick. And she has pride. She’ll come.”

At 8:55 AM, the elevator dinged.

Sophie stepped out.

She wasn’t wearing the worn cream coat. She was wearing a black blazer that looked slightly too big—probably thrifted—but it was pressed crisp. Her hair was pulled back in a severe, professional bun. She clutched a leather portfolio to her chest like a shield.

She walked up to the receptionist, her chin held high.

I pressed the intercom. “Send her in, please.”

When she walked into my office, she stopped when she saw Catherine.

“Catherine?”

“Hi, sweetie,” Catherine beamed. “I’m just here for moral support. And to make sure he doesn’t grill you too hard.”

Sophie looked at me. She took a deep breath and extended her hand. It was steady. “Mr. Grant. Thank you for seeing me.”

“Sit down, Ms. Miller,” I said, keeping my voice professional. “Let’s talk about your transcription speed.”

The interview lasted an hour. She wasn’t just good; she was overqualified. She knew medical coding systems I hadn’t even updated yet. She corrected me on a HIPAA compliance regulation. By the end of it, my HR director, who had sat in for the second half, looked ready to hug her.

“You’re hired,” I said.

Sophie didn’t smile. She nodded solemnly. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”

“I know. Now, go see Claire at the front desk. She has your paperwork. And… your signing bonus check. It’s an advance. You’ll need it to get set up.”

When she left the office, I saw her walk to the elevator. As the doors closed, I saw her drop her head back and let out a breath that seemed to expel years of tension.

The next few months were a blur. Sophie worked harder than anyone I had ever seen. She was the first one in, the last one out. She reorganized our entire filing system in three weeks. She caught a billing error that saved the firm forty thousand dollars in her second month.

She paid back the advance in record time. She moved out of the apartment in February, finding a modest two-bedroom duplex in a suburb with good schools.

We kept it professional. I was her boss. She was my employee. But there were moments. Coffees that lasted ten minutes too long. Shared glances across the conference room. I found myself making excuses to walk by her desk.

In July, on a Saturday, I “accidentally” ran into them at the city zoo. Owen recognized me immediately.

“Train man!” he screamed, running full tilt into my legs.

Sophie looked healthy. The dark circles were gone. She was wearing a sundress, and she laughed—a real, full-throated laugh—when Owen tried to climb me like a tree.

We spent the day together. We ate ice cream. We watched the lions. It felt… right. It felt like the missing piece of the puzzle I didn’t know I was solving.

Fast forward. One year later. Christmas Eve.

I parked my car in the driveway of the duplex. There was snow on the ground, fresh and white, not the grey slush of the city. Warm golden light spilled from the windows.

I knocked, and the door flew open.

“Nicholas!” Owen yelled. He was six now, taller, missing a front tooth. He was wearing pajamas with trains on them.

“Hey, buddy,” I said, hefting a large box wrapped in shiny red paper.

Sophie appeared in the hallway. She was wearing a red sweater and jeans. She looked radiant.

“You’re late,” she teased, leaning against the doorframe.

“I had to pick up a special order,” I said, stepping inside.

The house smelled of cinnamon and roast beef. There was a tree—a real one, six feet tall, covered in lights and homemade ornaments. Underneath it were piles of gifts.

I set the box down. Owen tore into it like a raptor. When he saw the elaborate electric train set—the one with the steam smoke and the realistic whistle—he actually screamed.

Sophie walked over to me. She didn’t say anything. She just reached out and took my hand, intertwining her fingers with mine. Her hand was warm.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Stop thanking me,” I said softly, looking at her. “You did this. You did the work. You built this home.”

“You gave me the bricks,” she said.

We sat on the floor, watching Owen set up the tracks. The room was warm. My stomach was full. My heart was full.

I thought back to that night in the restaurant, the woman in the wet coat, the terrified boy, the loneliness that had been eating me alive from the inside out. I had thought I was saving her that night. I had thought I was the hero of the story.

I looked at Sophie, laughing as the train derailed and crashed into a pile of wrapping paper. I looked at the way the light caught her eyes.

I realized I hadn’t saved her at all. She had saved herself.

But in the process, she had saved me, too. She had taught me that wealth isn’t the number in your bank account or the watch on your wrist. Wealth is having someone to wait for in the snow. Wealth is a warm room on a cold night. Wealth is the sound of a child laughing and the feeling of a hand in yours that promises you’ll never have to walk through the storm alone again.

“Merry Christmas, Nicholas,” she said, leaning her head on my shoulder.

“Merry Christmas, Sophie.”

And for the first time in my life, I really, truly meant it.