Snow fell in soft, deliberate flakes, as if the sky itself were taking care not to disturb the quiet of Christmas Eve. Clara stood at the kitchen window, watching the streetlights glow amber against the white, while the smell of cinnamon and pine filled the house. Behind her, Daniel pretended not to fuss with a small box hidden deep in his coat pocket.
They had been together for seven Christmases now, each one marked by small rituals: midnight cocoa, a single shared ornament added to the tree, and a walk through the neighborhood to admire the lights. This year felt no different—and yet entirely new.
After dinner, they curled up on the couch beneath a quilt stitched by Clara’s grandmother. The tree shimmered beside them, its lights reflecting in glass ornaments and in Clara’s eyes. Daniel watched her as she laughed at an old movie they’d seen a dozen times before, thinking how she could still bedazzle him without trying, just by being herself.
“Walk?” she asked, already reaching for her scarf.
Outside, the cold air sharpened their breath into clouds. Houses glittered with decorations, some tasteful, some wildly enthusiastic, all of them hopeful. Halfway down the block, beneath a maple tree wrapped in white lights, Daniel stopped.
“I’ve been carrying this all evening,” he said, pulling the small box from his pocket, his hands trembling more from nerves than cold.
Clara’s laughter faded into silence as he opened it. Inside was a simple ring, catching the light like a promise.
Snow continued to fall, the world hushed and waiting. Clara didn’t speak at first—she only smiled, wide and bright, a smile that made everything else disappear.
“Yes,” she finally said, her voice breaking like a bell in the quiet night.
They walked home hand in hand, the future suddenly vast and close all at once. And when they added that year’s ornament to the tree—a tiny silver star—it seemed to shine a little brighter than the rest, as if Christmas itself were celebrating with them.
Therapy Bits 
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