Ink and Heartstrings

43. Reclamation

Christmas arrived quietly that year, slipping into Maria's life not with bells and cheer, but with a summons she couldn't refuse.

A few days had passed since her mother's question about the old college photo—the one with the boy in the red shirt. The topic hadn't resurfaced, but it lingered like a shadow that refused to move with the sun. Maria knew better than to assume silence meant acceptance. With her parents, silence usually meant preparation.

When the company-wide Christmas leave was announced, her mother's call came within hours.

Elena: "You have leave now. There's no reason to stay there alone. Come home."

It wasn't a request. It was phrased gently, but the expectation sat firm beneath it.

Maria stood by the window of the apartment, phone pressed to her ear, watching the city lights flicker on as dusk settled.

Maria: "Of course, Mom. I'll book the flight tonight."

She hung up and leaned her forehead against the cool glass. The word home felt heavier than it used to. Comforting, yes but also constricting.

Behind her, Alan looked up from the couch.

Alan: "Christmas summons?"

She nodded.

Maria: "I have to go."

He didn't hide the disappointment, but he didn't fight it either.

Alan: "I know."

They sat together in the quiet that followed, neither pretending it didn't hurt.

Later that night, as Maria packed, her movements were restless. Clothes were folded, unfolded, folded again. Alan leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her with a soft smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Alan: "You're packing like you're leaving forever."

Maria: (half-laughing) "It feels like I am. Temporarily."

Alan: "You'll be back. The city will still be here. I'll still be here."

She paused, holding one of his sweaters in her hands before putting it back in the drawer.

Maria: "I wish I could take you with me. Even just in words."

Alan: "You do. Every time you think of me and don't say my name out loud."

She smiled sadly.

The flight home was crowded with families and laughter, children clutching gifts and couples leaning into each other. Maria sat by the window, earphones in but no music playing, her thoughts louder than any song.

She texted Alan once the plane landed.

Maria: Landed. Safe.
Alan: Good. Call me when you escape the airport chaos.
Maria: I already miss you.
Alan: Already?
Maria: I missed you before I even boarded.

He replied with a ridiculous selfie—him wearing a Santa hat from the grocery store.

Alan: Surviving Christmas solo. Barely.

She laughed out loud, earning a curious glance from the woman beside her.

Home looked exactly the same. The same garlands on the door, the same faint smell of incense and pine. Elena fussed over her the moment she stepped inside checking if she'd eaten, if she was cold, if she'd lost weight.