Chapter 7: The Snowman with Red Hair
The snow kept falling.
It fell past the porch light in thick, lazy flakes, the kind that caught the glow and held it, turning the backyard into something out of a storybook. The snowman stood in the middle of the lawn—lopsided, red-topped, its pinecone eyes staring at nothing, its carrot nose already drooping. The crooked smile had slid sideways.
Kyo had kissed it goodnight before Kakashi carried him inside.
Now the house was quiet. The kind of quiet that came after a good day—not empty, not heavy. Just full. Full of the smell of cocoa and the distant hum of the furnace and the soft creak of the house settling into the cold.
Kakashi stood at the kitchen sink, washing mugs. The water was too hot. He didn't mind. His hands were still cold from the snow, and the heat felt like something returning to him.
Behind him, Sakura was wiping down the counter with slow, aimless circles. She'd been quiet since they came inside. Not sad quiet. Something else. Something that had been building for weeks and was only now finding room to breathe.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Yeah."
He turned off the water. Dried his hands on the towel. Turned around.
She was staring at the leftover cake. The fox-shaped cake, mostly demolished, its frosting smeared, its single candle unlit and half-buried in a pile of chocolate crumbs.
"He didn't blow out the candle," she said.
"We forgot."
"I know. I just—" She stopped. Started again. "I wanted him to have that. The wish. The whole thing. You're supposed to blow out the candle and make a wish."
"He's three. He doesn't know what wishes are."
"That's not the point."
Kakashi crossed the kitchen. He stood beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched.
"We can do it tomorrow," he said. "Light the candle. Let him blow it out. Tell him it's never too late to make a wish."
She looked at him. Her eyes were tired—the kind of tired that came from working too many shifts and feeling too many things and not sleeping enough.
"You're good at this," she said.
"At what?"
"Being a dad."
He didn't answer. He didn't know how. The word still felt too big, too new, like a coat that didn't quite fit yet.
She leaned into him. Her head found his shoulder. Her hair smelled like snow and sugar.
"I'm going back to work on Monday," she said.
"I know."
"I don't want to."
"I know."
"I've been thinking about cutting back. Maybe going part-time. Or just—taking a leave. For a few months. Until he's settled."
Kakashi pulled back. He looked at her face. The exhaustion. The guilt. The stubborn set of her jaw that meant she'd been arguing with herself for weeks.
"What about the hospital?"
"They'll survive. They did before me. They will after."
"You love your job."
"I love him more."
The words hung in the air. Simple. True. Heavy.
Kakashi didn't know what to say. So he said the only thing he could.
"He loves you too."
Sakura laughed. It was a wet, shaky sound. "He told you that?"
"He told me you make the best pancakes. That's basically a declaration of love from a three-year-old."
"He's never had pancakes from anyone else. He has no basis for comparison."
"He has opinions."
"He has a lot of opinions."
They stood there for a moment, in the quiet kitchen, the snow falling outside, the fox cake between them, the day finally done.
Then Sakura said, "I'm going to check on him."
She walked out of the kitchen. Her footsteps faded down the hall. Kakashi heard the soft creak of Kyo's bedroom door—the one that always stuck—and the even softer sound of her voice, murmuring something he couldn't make out.
He stood alone in the kitchen. He looked at the cake. At the candle. At the pile of dishes that needed washing.
Then he picked up the candle. Wiped off the frosting. Put it in the drawer with the matches.
Tomorrow. They'd do it tomorrow.
The bedroom was dim. Kyo's nightlight—a small, plug-in thing shaped like a star—cast a warm glow across the walls. He was sprawled on his back, his arms flung out, his mouth open. The fox was tucked under one arm. A plastic fire truck was under the other.
Sakura stood in the doorway. She didn't go in. She just watched.
Kakashi came up behind her. Wrapped his arms around her waist. Rested his chin on her shoulder.
"He drools," she whispered.
"He's three."
"It's on the pillow."
"Pillows wash."
She leaned back into him. Her body was warm. Her breathing was slow.
"I never thought I'd have this," she said. "Not like this. Not—" She gestured vaguely at the room, at Kyo, at the quiet house. "I thought I'd be alone. Or I'd have a kid and a nanny and a career and no time. I thought that was the trade-off."
"You don't have to trade."
"I know. That's what I mean. I didn't know that was an option."
Kakashi kissed the side of her head. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to.
They stood there in the doorway, watching their son sleep, until the star nightlight flickered once and then held steady.
The next morning, Kyo woke up early.
Kakashi heard him before he saw him—small feet on the hardwood, the drag of the fox being pulled along, the soft grunt of a three-year-old trying to climb onto the bed.
He opened his eyes. Kyo was standing by the mattress, his hair a red disaster, his pajamas twisted.
"Papa."
"Yeah."
"Snowman."
Kakashi sat up. Rubbed his eyes. Looked at the clock—6:48. Earlier than usual.
"What about the snowman?"
"Is he still there?"
Kakashi threw off the covers. He picked Kyo up. Carried him to the window.
The snowman was there. Slightly less lopsided. Slightly more covered in snow. The carrot nose had fallen off completely. The pinecone eyes were still in place.
"He's still there," Kakashi said.
Kyo pressed his nose to the glass. "He looks cold."
"He's made of snow. He's supposed to be cold."
"But he's all alone."
Kakashi looked at the snowman. At its crooked smile. At its red-topped head—the red hair Sakura had found in the craft bin, the red hair Kyo had insisted on, the red hair that was now dusted with fresh powder.
"He's not alone," Kakashi said. "He has us."
"He can't see us. He's outside."
"He knows we're here."
Kyo considered this. Then he said, "I want to give him a hat."
"Okay."
"And a scarf."
"Okay."
"And a friend."
Kakashi paused. "A friend?"
"Another snowman. So he's not alone."
Sakura stirred in the bed behind them. "Did someone say another snowman?"
Kyo turned. "Mama. We have to build a friend."
She sat up. Her hair was pink chaos. Her eyes were barely open.
"Now?"
"Yes."
"It's seven in the morning."
"The snowman doesn't care."
Sakura looked at Kakashi. Kakashi shrugged.
"He's got a point," Kakashi said.
They bundled Kyo into his snowsuit again—the same one from yesterday, still damp, still smelling like wet wool and cold air. They pulled on their own coats. They found hats and gloves and the scarf Mebuki had knitted.
By the time they got outside, the sun was rising.
The backyard was a white expanse. The snowman stood in the middle, a monument to yesterday. The trees were heavy with snow. The fence was barely visible. The world was quiet.
Kyo ran to the snowman. He hugged it. He didn't seem to care that it was freezing.
"Good morning," he said. "I brought you a hat."
He pulled off his own hat—a small red thing with a pom-pom—and tried to put it on the snowman's head. It didn't fit. It fell off.
Kyo frowned.
"It's okay," Sakura said. "We'll find a bigger one."
She went back inside. Returned a minute later with an old scarf and a bucket. She wrapped the scarf around the snowman's neck. She placed the bucket on its head.
"Better?"
Kyo nodded. "Now he's warm."
"He's snow. He can't be warm."
"He's warm on the inside."
Kakashi started rolling a new snowball. It was hard work—the snow was wet and heavy, the kind that stuck to your gloves and refused to cooperate. But he rolled anyway. Kyo helped, pushing with his tiny mittens, his breath coming in white puffs.
"Bigger," Kyo said. "Make him big."
"Bigger than you?"
"Bigger than you."
Kakashi laughed. He kept rolling.
By the time they finished, there were two snowmen. The first one—the original—stood slightly apart, still wearing its bucket hat and scarf. The second one was taller. Rounder. Its head was a perfect sphere. Its eyes were two bottle caps Sakura had found in the recycling bin.
Kyo stood back. He looked at them both.
"They're friends," he said.
"Yeah."
"Now they have each other."
Sakura knelt beside him. She pulled him into a hug. He squirmed but didn't pull away.
"You're a good kid," she said.
"I know."
Kakashi snorted.
"What?" Kyo asked.
"Nothing. Just—you're right. You're a good kid."
Kyo nodded. He seemed satisfied.
Then he said, "I want breakfast."
They went inside. The kitchen was warm. The coffee was ready. Mebuki was at the table, her reading glasses on, a cup of tea in her hands.
"The snowmen look good," she said.
"You saw them?"
"From the window. The second one is taller than the first. He's got a good face."
"He's got a bucket."
"Buckets are versatile."
Kyo climbed onto his chair. He looked at the counter. At the fox cake. At the single candle, still in the drawer.
"Papa," he said. "Did I forget something?"
Kakashi followed his gaze. He remembered.
"Yeah," he said. "You forgot to blow out the candle."
Kyo's eyes went wide. "I didn't make a wish."
"You can still make one."
Kakashi got the candle. He put it in the cake. He lit it with a match.
The flame flickered. Kyo stared at it.
"Make a wish," Sakura said. "Anything you want."
Kyo closed his eyes. He thought hard. His face scrunched up. Then he opened his eyes and blew.
The flame went out.
"What did you wish for?" Mebuki asked.
Kyo looked at her. At Sakura. At Kakashi. At the window, where the snow was still falling, covering the snowmen, covering the yard, covering everything in white.
"I wished for more days," he said. "Like this one."
No one spoke. The kitchen was quiet. The snow fell.
Then Sakura reached over and took Kakashi's hand under the table. She squeezed it once. Twice.
"Me too," she said.
Kyo didn't understand. He was already reaching for the cake, already asking for a piece with the most frosting, already moving on to the next thing.
But Kakashi understood.
He looked at his wife. At his son. At the snow falling outside the window.
More days like this one.
It was a good wish.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of cocoa and crumbs and the soft sound of cartoons playing in the living room. Kyo sat on the floor, the fox in his lap, his eyes glued to the screen. Mebuki dozed in her chair. Sakura washed dishes. Kakashi wiped the counters.
At noon, the doorbell rang.
Kakashi opened it to find Genma on the porch, his senbon in place, a brown paper bag in his arms.
"Brought more cake," he said. "Ino made me."
"Ino made you?"
"She said it was for the kid. But she also said if I didn't bring it, she'd know. So here I am."
Kakashi took the bag. "You want to come in?"
"I can't stay. Got a shift at three." He looked past Kakashi, into the house. "How's the kid?"
"Good. Building snowmen."
"There's two of them out there. I saw. They're ugly."
"They're perfect."
Genma smirked. "You're turning into a dad."
"I've been a dad."
"You've been a dad for two months. Now you're turning into a dad." He pointed at Kakashi's chest. "There's a difference."
Kakashi didn't argue. He just stepped aside.
Genma came in. He kicked off his boots. He nodded at Sakura, who was standing in the kitchen doorway.
"Doc."
"Genma."
"Still married?"
"Just did it again. Last week."
"I heard. Ino wouldn't shut up about it." He looked at Kyo, who was still watching cartoons. "Hey, kid."
Kyo turned. "Hi."
"Nice snowmen."
"Thank you."
"Which one's yours?"
"The tall one. The short one is my friend."
Genma nodded slowly. "Makes sense."
He didn't stay long. Just long enough to drink a cup of coffee and tell a story about a burglar who'd tried to break into the building last week and gotten stuck in a window. Kakashi laughed. Sakura rolled her eyes. Kyo listened with wide eyes, even though he didn't understand half the words.
Then Genma left. The door closed. The house went quiet again.
Kyo went back to his cartoons. Mebuki went to her room to nap. Sakura went to the bedroom to change out of her pajamas.
Kakashi stood alone in the kitchen. He looked out the window at the snowmen. At the falling snow. At the yard that was slowly becoming a different place—a place with history, with memories, with two lopsided snowmen and a red-topped one with a bucket hat.
He thought about the wish.
More days like this one.
He wanted that too. More than anything.
But he also knew—with a certainty that settled into his bones like cold air—that days like this didn't happen on their own. They had to be built. Protected. Fought for.
He thought about Gato. About the cold room. About the way Kyo had screamed, that first night, when the nightmares came.
He thought about the adoption papers. The courthouse. The judge's gavel.
He thought about Sakura, standing in the doorway last night, saying I didn't know that was an option.
He thought about all of it.
And he made a promise to himself.
He would protect this. Whatever it took. However long it took.
He would protect this.
That night, after Kyo was asleep and Mebuki had gone to bed and the house was quiet, Sakura found him on the porch.
He was sitting on the steps, a mug of cold coffee in his hands, staring at the snowmen. They were barely visible now—just two lumps in the dark, their shapes softened by the fresh snow.
She sat beside him. She didn't say anything.
They watched the yard. The snow. The sky.
"I've been thinking," he said.
"About what?"
"About the future. About what happens next."
She waited.
"I want to talk to Shizune. About making this permanent. More permanent. I want to—" He stopped. Started again. "I want to make sure Gato can never come back. I want to make sure Kyo is safe. Not just now. Forever."
Sakura nodded. "We can do that."
"And I want to talk about money. About you cutting back. About what that looks like."
"Okay."
"And I want—" He stopped again. This was harder. "I want to be better. At this. At being a dad. At being a husband. I don't always know what I'm doing."
Sakura leaned into him. Her head found his shoulder. Her hand found his.
"Neither do I," she said. "That's the point."
They sat there in the cold, watching the snow fall, watching the snowmen stand guard over the yard.
And somewhere inside, Kyo slept. His fox under one arm. His fire truck under the other. His dreams quiet.
For now.
For now.
The first week of December arrived with a cold snap that turned the rain to ice and the ice to something harder. Pipes groaned in the walls. The furnace ran day and night. Mebuki's sunroom, with its paper-thin walls and ancient windows, became a place you walked through quickly, not a place you lingered.
Kyo discovered the cold the way he discovered everything—headfirst, with both hands.
He pressed his palm against the sunroom glass one morning and yelped. Then he did it again. Then he laughed.
"It's cold," he announced.
"Yeah," Kakashi said, from the doorway. "That's what winter is."
"I like it."
"You won't in February."
Kyo didn't know what February was. He just pressed his hand against the glass again and watched the frost melt under his fingers.
The neighborhood started decorating that week. It happened slowly at first—a wreath here, a string of lights there—and then all at once, like someone had flipped a switch.
Kakashi noticed on a Tuesday, driving home from a shift. The Hendersons across the street had outlined their entire roof in blue. The Kobayashis had a plastic Santa on their lawn, waving mechanically at nothing. The old woman three doors down—Mrs. Tanaka, who kept fourteen cats and never spoke to anyone—had hung a single strand of white lights around her porch. It looked like it had been there since 1987.
He pulled into the driveway and sat in the car for a minute, just looking.
The house looked plain. Brown roof. Gray siding. The two snowmen from Kyo's birthday had melted and refrozen so many times they were barely recognizable—just lumps of dirty ice, the carrot long gone, the bucket hat blown into the neighbor's yard.
Kakashi got out of the car. He walked inside.
Kyo was on the living room floor, building a tower out of blocks. Sakura was on the couch, a medical journal open on her lap. Mebuki was in the kitchen, doing something that smelled like ginger.
"We need lights," Kakashi said.
Sakura looked up. "What?"
"Lights. Outside. Everyone has them."
"Everyone?"
"The whole street. The Hendersons have blue. The Kobayashis have a Santa. Mrs. Tanaka has a single strand of white that looks like it's been there since the Reagan administration."
Sakura set down her journal. "You want to decorate?"
"I want lights."
Kyo looked up from his blocks. "Lights?"
"Yeah," Kakashi said. "Outside lights. On the house. So people can see we live here."
Kyo stood up. He abandoned the tower without a second thought. "I want lights."
"Then we'll get lights."
They went to the hardware store that afternoon. Kyo rode in the cart, his legs dangling, his eyes wide at the aisles of tools and paint and plastic snowmen. Kakashi pushed. Sakura walked beside them, a list in her hand that she kept forgetting to look at.
They bought three strings of white lights. A wreath for the door. A small, sad-looking Christmas tree that came in a box and required assembly.
Kyo insisted on carrying the wreath. He held it like a shield, his small arms wrapped around it, his chin resting on the top.
"It's mine," he said.
"It's for the door."
"I know. But it's mine."
They put the wreath on the door when they got home. Kyo stood back and looked at it. He tilted his head. He looked at Kakashi.
"It needs a face."
"It's a wreath."
"Wreaths can have faces."
Kakashi found some old ornaments in a box Mebuki had in the garage. He zip-tied two to the wreath—one on either side—and suddenly the wreath had eyes. Round, silver, unblinking eyes.
Kyo laughed. "He's watching us."
"Who?"
"The wreath. He's watching."
"He never blinks."
"Never?"
"Never."
Kyo stared at the wreath for a long moment. Then he said, "I like him."
The lights went up the next day. Kakashi did the actual work—climbing the ladder, stapling the strands to the eaves, swearing under his breath when the wind picked up. Kyo stood on the lawn, bundled in his snowsuit, shouting instructions.
"Higher."
"They're already high."
"Higher."
Sakura stood on the porch with a mug of coffee, watching them both. She was smiling. It was a real smile—not the tired one, not the stressed one. The kind that reached her eyes.
When the lights came on, Kyo gasped.
"Papa. Papa. They're on."
"They're on."
"They're so pretty."
He spun in a circle, his arms out, his face tipped up. The lights flickered against the snow. Against the gray sky. Against his red hair.
Kakashi climbed down the ladder. He stood beside Sakura. She handed him the mug.
"He's going to remember this," she said.
"You think?"
"He's three. He remembers everything." She paused. "The good stuff. And the bad."
Kakashi thought about the cold room. The bruise. The scream. He thought about the way Kyo flinched when someone moved too fast, or when the phone rang too loud, or when the wind rattled the windows at night.
"Yeah," he said. "He does."
"So we make sure there's more good stuff."
"That's the plan."
They watched Kyo spin. The lights flickered. The snow fell. The wreath watched with its silver eyes.
The tree came the following weekend.
It was a real tree—Sakura insisted. Not the sad boxed one they'd bought at the hardware store, but a real, seven-foot fir from a lot downtown. It cost more than Kakashi wanted to spend. He didn't say anything.
They hauled it into the living room. It barely fit. It tilted slightly to the left, no matter how many times they adjusted the stand.
"It's leaning," Mebuki said, from the doorway.
"It's charming."
"It's leaning."
"Charming."
They decorated it that night. Mebuki brought out a box of ornaments collected over thirty years—some from her own childhood, some from Sakura's, some from trips and friends and Christmases long past. Kyo pulled them out one by one, holding each like it was made of glass.
"Careful," Sakura said. "That one's old."
"This one's a bird."
"A dove."
"Does it fly?"
"Not anymore."
Kyo nodded. He hung it on the lowest branch. Then he stepped back to admire his work.
"I want to do more."
"You will. There's a whole box."
He did the whole box. Every ornament. Every branch. He hung them so close together on one side that the tree looked like it had a disease. Sakura tried to redistribute them. He caught her.
"No. Those are mine."
"We're just making room for the others."
"No. Mama. Those are mine."
She put them back. She let him have the side of the tree. The rest of them decorated the other side, the back, the top, the places Kyo couldn't reach.
When it was done—uneven, lopsided, half-bare, half-drowning in ornaments—Kakashi plugged in the lights.
The tree lit up. Kyo gasped. He ran to it. He pressed his face into the branches.
"Papa. It's magic."
"It's just lights."
"It's magic."
He stood there, his nose in the pine needles, his small body outlined in gold and red and blue. Sakura took a photo. Mebuki took a photo. Kakashi just watched.
The letter to Santa happened on a Wednesday.
Kyo had been hearing about Santa from somewhere—the cartoons, probably, or the kids at daycare, or Ino, who had a habit of oversharing. He came to Mebuki in the afternoon, his face serious.
"Grandma. I need to write a letter."
"A letter?"
"To Santa."
Mebuki set down her tea. "Okay. What do you want to say?"
"I don't know. I need help."
She found paper and a pen. She sat with him at the kitchen table, the light cold and gray through the window. Kyo sat on his knees, his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands.
"Dear Santa," Mebuki said. "That's how you start."
"Are you writing?"
"I'm helping you write. You tell me what to say. I'll put it down."
"Okay." Kyo thought. His face scrunched up. "Dear Santa. I am Kyo. I am three."
Mebuki wrote. She wrote slowly, so he could see the words form.
"I have a mama and a papa. And a grandma. And a fox. And a fire truck."
Mebuki wrote that too.
"I want a few things."
"What things?"
Kyo thought harder. His legs swung under the table. His tongue poked out the corner of his mouth.
"A dinosaur. Not a big one. A small one. A green one."
Mebuki wrote it down.
"And a puzzle. With animals."
She wrote it down.
"And—" He stopped.
"What else?"
"I want Mama and Papa to be happy."
Mebuki's pen paused. She looked at him. He wasn't looking at her—he was staring at the paper, at the words forming under his name, at the small, careful letters.
"Are they sad?" she asked.
"No. But I want them to be happy always. Not just sometimes."
Mebuki wrote it down. Her hand wasn't steady. She wrote it anyway.
"Anything else?"
"Yes." Kyo sat up straighter. "I want a candy cane."
"That's it?"
"A big one. Bigger than my head."
Mebuki laughed. She wrote it down. Then she folded the paper. Then she helped him put it in an envelope.
"Where do we send it?" Kyo asked.
"The North Pole."
"Do we have a stamp?"
"We don't need a stamp. Santa knows how to find it."
"Because he's magic?"
"Because he's Santa."
Kyo nodded. He sealed the envelope. He drew a star on the front—messy, lopsided, perfect.
Then he handed it to Mebuki.
"Can you mail it?"
"I'll put it somewhere special. Where the wind can find it."
"Okay."
He was satisfied. He went back to his blocks. The letter sat on the kitchen counter. Mebuki didn't mail it. She put it in the drawer with the bills and the coupons and the half-burned candle from his birthday.
She would keep it. Forever.
Christmas Eve came fast.
The house was warm. The tree glowed. The wreath watched from the door. Kyo couldn't sleep—he kept getting up, checking the window, asking if Santa was there yet.
"Not yet."
"How much longer?"
"Hours."
"How many hours?"
"Too many."
He didn't understand. He kept getting up. Finally, at ten o'clock, Sakura laid down with him in his bed. She read him the same book three times. She hummed a song she didn't know the words to. He fell asleep mid-sentence, his fox under one arm, his breath warm and slow.
Kakashi and Sakura stayed up. They wrapped the last presents. They put out cookies for Santa and a carrot for the reindeer. They ate the carrot themselves, because they forgot to buy one for the reindeer and used a leftover from the fridge.
Then they went to bed.
Kakashi woke to the sound of running feet.
Small feet. Fast feet. The door swung open. Kyo stood in the frame, his hair a red halo, his eyes wide.
"Mama. Papa. Presents."
Sakura groaned. She rolled over. She looked at the clock—6:14.
"Kyo. It's early."
"Presents."
"He's right," Kakashi said. "We're up."
They stumbled into the living room. Mebuki was already there, coffee in hand, camera around her neck. She'd been waiting.
Kyo ran to the tree. He stopped. He stared.
There were presents everywhere—under the tree, around the tree, stacked on the couch. Wrapped in bright paper. Bows. Tags. The whole thing.
"Santa came," he whispered.
"He did."
"He ate the cookies."
"He did."
"He left crumbs."
"He's messy."
Kyo didn't care. He dropped to his knees. He grabbed the first present he saw—a flat, rectangular box in green paper—and shook it. Then he looked at Kakashi.
"Can I open it?"
"Go ahead."
He tore the paper. He opened the box. Inside was a small, green dinosaur—exactly what he'd asked for. He held it up. He stared at it.
"He listened."
"He always listens."
Kyo hugged the dinosaur. He set it down. He grabbed another present.
The next hour was chaos. Paper flew. Bows stuck to Kyo's hair. Mebuki took photos. Sakura laughed. Kakashi opened his own presents—a new book from Sakura, a flashlight from Mebuki, a mug from Ino that said "World's Okayest Dad."
Kyo got everything he'd asked for. The dinosaur. The puzzle. A candy cane bigger than his head. He got other things too—a stuffed bird, a book about a bear, a small plastic camera that made clicking sounds.
He didn't ask for more. He didn't look at the tags. He didn't compare. He just opened each one with the same look of wonder, the same gasp, the same careful placing on the pile beside him.
When the last present was opened, he sat back. He looked at the pile. He looked at his parents.
"I got everything," he said.
"Did you?"
"Everything I asked for. From Santa."
"Santa's good at that."
Kyo stood up. He walked to the tree. He looked at the lights, at the ornaments, at the star on top—a paper star Sakura had made when she was a kid.
He turned around.
"Santa got my letter."
"Did he?"
"I asked for Mama and Papa to be happy. And I am. So he did his job."
Sakura's eyes went wet. She didn't try to hide it. She knelt down and held out her arms. Kyo walked into them. He let her hold him.
"I'm happy too," she said.
"You are?"
"Very."
Kakashi knelt beside them. He put his arms around both of them. The three of them sat there, on the floor, in the middle of the mess of paper and ribbons and half-eaten candy canes.
Mebuki took a photo. Then she set down her camera. Then she walked out of the room—just for a minute—to wipe her eyes in the kitchen, where no one could see.
The rest of the day was slow.
They ate. They napped. They watched cartoons. Kyo played with his dinosaur. Sakura read her new book. Kakashi fixed the leaky faucet in the bathroom. Mebuki cooked.
In the afternoon, it snowed again—soft, steady flakes that covered the yard and the snowmen and the house.
Kyo stood at the window. He watched the snow fall. He pressed his palm against the glass.
"Papa."
"Yeah."
"Is Santa coming back tomorrow?"
"No. He comes once a year."
"That's not enough."
"It's what we get."
Kyo thought about this. He seemed to accept it.
Then he said, "I'm going to write him another letter."
"Now?"
"Now."
He found paper. He found a pen. He sat at the table. He wrote nothing—just scribbles, lines, circles, a shape that might have been a star.
Then he folded the paper. He put it in an envelope. He sealed it. He drew a star on the front.
He handed it to Kakashi.
"Can you put it where the wind can find it?"
Kakashi took the envelope. He looked at it. At the scribbles. At the star.
"I'll do it right now."
He went outside. He stood on the porch. The snow fell on his face. He held the envelope up to the sky.
Then he let it go. The wind took it. It fluttered and spun and disappeared into the white.
He went back inside. Kyo was waiting.
"Did the wind get it?"
"Yeah."
"Good." Kyo nodded. He seemed satisfied. "Santa will know."
He wandered off. To the tree. To his presents. To the fox and the fire truck and the new green dinosaur.
Kakashi stood in the doorway. Sakura came up beside him. She leaned into his arm.
"What was in the letter?" she asked.
He looked at her. At her tired, happy face. At the tree behind her. At the room full of light.
"Same as before," he said. "He just wants us to be happy."
She smiled. Her eyes went wet again. She didn't try to hide it this time.
"We are," she said.
Outside, the snow kept falling. The wreath watched. The lights glowed. The tree stood in the window, lit up like a promise.
And somewhere in the house, a three-year-old laughed at something only he could see.