The winter solstice arrived with a hush of snow, blanketing Blackwood in pristine white. Sandra sat by the fire in the library, Alexander asleep in her arms, his dark lashes fluttering against cheeks rosy from the day's adventures. Across from her, Paul sorted through a stack of correspondence, his brow furrowing at a particular envelope.
"This one's from France," he said quietly, turning it over to reveal Clara's delicate script. "Addressed to all of us."
Sandra shifted Alexander gently, reaching for the letter. "Open it."
Paul broke the seal, unfolding the thick parchment. As he read, his expression shifted from curiosity to something softer—something like wonder. "She's coming home," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "For Christmas. She writes... she writes that Paris was lovely, but Blackwood is where her heart is. Where her family is."
Sandra's throat tightened. Outside, the snow continued to fall, muffling the world beyond their walls. Inside, the fire crackled, casting dancing shadows over the spines of centuries-old books—books that had borne witness to so much pain, now silent observers to this quiet joy.
"There's more," Paul continued, pulling another letter from the stack. "From the prison warden. My father..." He trailed off, turning the envelope over in his hands.
Sandra reached across the space between them, covering his hand with hers. "You don't have to read it now."
Paul exhaled sharply, setting the letter aside. "Later," he agreed. He looked down at Alexander, asleep between them, his tiny chest rising and falling with each breath. "Some shadows can wait."
The fire burned low as the night deepened. The letter from the prison lay unopened on the desk, its secrets kept at bay for now. Outside, the snow continued to fall, wrapping Blackwood in silence and peace. And in the heart of the old house, a family—forged from broken pieces, bound by love stronger than blood or legacy—kept watch together, warm against the winter's chill.