She held still, afraid the smallest movement would break whatever spell she’d stumbled into. The sound drifted again—brief, bright, unmistakable. Like bells carried on a current of night air.
Christmas Eve aboard the Cousteau was usually a warm, bustling affair. The crew decorated bulkheads with replicated garlands, brewed small batches of spiced tea in the galley, and argued cheerfully about which Earth tradition counted as “real Christmas.”
Her mother’s voice rose up in her mind, soft and warm and carrying the cinnamon scent of the kitchen from decades ago: Put your finger right there, sweetie. She could still feel her own small hand, steadying the ribbon the same way her daughter was doing now. She hadn’t thought about that moment in years—not really—but suddenly it was as clear as the afternoon it happened.
