part 4

"Oh yes, she used to come in all the time before..." Mrs. Henderson pauses, her wrinkled face scrunching up in thought. "Well, it must have been years ago now. Such a lovely woman. She always wore the prettiest shade of red lipstick."

The rest of my shift passes in a blur. I focus on inventory counts and reorganizing the mystery section, anything to keep my mind occupied. By closing time, I've almost convinced myself that the conversation with Mrs. Henderson never happened. After all, she's getting older – she probably has me confused with someone else.

When I get home, Cheri's left a note on the fridge: 'Working late tonight. Leftover pasta in the fridge. Love you.' The apartment feels different when she's not here. Bigger somehow. Emptier. I heat up the pasta but barely taste it, my eyes drawn to the Christmas lights she's strung around the living room windows. They cast strange shadows on the walls, like reaching fingers.

I should go to bed. I have the early shift again tomorrow. But sleep means dreams, and lately they've been getting worse. More vivid. More... real.

Instead, I pull out my laptop and open up a browser window. I stare at the empty search bar for a long moment before typing: 'Morton's Books history.' The results are mostly reviews and business listings. Nothing about my mother. Nothing about that Christmas.

My finger hovers over the backspace key. I could search for more specific terms. Names. Dates. But something stops me. The same something that's stopped me every time before.

The lights flicker – probably just a power surge – and I close the laptop. That's enough for tonight. I'll just watch some TV until Cheri gets home. Something mindless. Something safe.

As I reach for the remote, I catch a glimpse of movement in the darkened TV screen. For a split second, I think I see a reflection of someone standing behind me.

But when I turn around, the apartment is empty.

Just like it should be.

I must have dozed off on the couch because the next thing I know, Cheri's gently shaking my shoulder.

"Ken? Hey, you're going to hurt your neck sleeping like that."

I blink, disoriented. The TV's still on, playing infomercials with the sound muted. The Christmas lights cast a soft glow across the room.

"What time is it?" My voice sounds rough.

"Just past midnight. You didn't have to wait up for me." She's still in her nurse's scrubs, looking exhausted. "Rough night at the hospital?"

"Had to cover for Sarah," she says, collapsing next to me on the couch. "Triple shift. But at least I'm off tomorrow." She leans her head on my shoulder. "You were talking in your sleep again."

My stomach tightens. "Was I?"

"Mmhmm. Something about your brother? And Christmas lights?" She yawns. "Couldn't really make it out."

I force a laugh. "Probably just stressed about the holidays."

"You know," she says slowly, "you never really talk about your family. I mean, I know about your brother, but..." She trails off, waiting.

I keep my eyes fixed on the TV. An ad for kitchen knives plays silently on the screen. The blade catches the light as the demonstrator shows off its cutting power.

"Not much to talk about," I say finally. "Dad left when I was young. Mom... well, she did her best. And Tommy..." The name feels strange in my mouth, like something foreign. "Tommy was Tommy. You know how brothers are."

"I don't, actually. Only child, remember?" She pokes my ribs gently. "But I get it if you don't want to talk about it."

The thing is, I do want to talk about it. Sometimes the memories feel like they're burning a hole inside me. But which memories are real? The happy ones of Christmas mornings and movie marathons? Or the other ones, the ones that only come in dreams?

"Maybe someday," I say.

Cheri nods against my shoulder, already half asleep. "Come on," she says, standing and pulling me up. "Let's go to bed. For real this time."

In the bedroom, she falls asleep almost immediately. I lie awake, listening to her steady breathing, trying to match my own to it. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 12:47. December 19th now.

Six days until Christmas Eve.

Five days and eleven hours until-

I close my eyes tight, forcing the thought away. Instead, I think about work. About the book displays I need to finish. About the inventory that needs to be counted. About Mrs. Henderson and her arthritis and-

About what she said about my mother.

No. Not that either.

I roll over, careful not to wake Cheri. Maybe if I focus on her breathing, on the familiar weight of her next to me, I can avoid the dreams tonight. Maybe just this once, I can sleep without seeing my mother's face in the mirror. Without hearing Tommy's voice. Without remembering the way the Christmas lights looked that night, reflecting off the bathroom tile, making patterns like-

No.

Just sleep.

Just dream about normal things.

Just forget.