Chapter 7 — Gwen’s Gift
Some memories knock. Others break in.
This one didn’t wait for permission.
The workshop, the snow, the Prime Gate—all gone. Even the sound of the sleigh’s runners had folded into stillness. Chuck stood in light that smelled of cinnamon and old paper, the kind of warmth that stays behind after love leaves the room.
And she was there.
Gwen sat cross-legged on the floor, curls tumbling into her face, a needle flashing between her fingers. A tangle of fabric filled her lap. She laughed, soft and familiar, the kind of sound that could make even guilt forget itself for a moment.
“About time,” she said, without looking up. “You’ve been hiding from this one long enough.”
Chuck swallowed hard. “You’re not—”
“Real?” she finished, tying a knot with her teeth. “No. You’re remembering me properly for once. That’s new.”
The bear rested in her lap, small and crooked. One ear higher than the other, nose stitched in surrender after several failed attempts. A strip of duct tape waited nearby, patient and loyal.
“I was awful at enchantments,” Gwen said. “But you told me imperfections hold the magic better.”
Chuck knelt beside her, afraid that blinking might ruin the illusion. “You made that for me.”
Her eyes lifted to his—bright, gentle, piercing straight through the armor he wore. “You didn’t know what to do with grief. You thought fixing something was the same as forgiving it.”
He gave a breath that wanted to be a laugh. “Still do.”
“I know.” She reached out, fingers brushing his cheek. They were warm, but weightless. “That’s why I made you something that wouldn’t fix.”
The bear’s chest glowed faintly where the duct tape crossed.
“It holds sadness,” she said. “Not to erase it. To keep it company.”
He tried to say her name again—to fill the air with it, to make her stay—but the light around her flickered, and her expression gentled into sorrow.
“Chuck,” she said, voice softening, “you have to forgive Nick.”
The words hit like a key turning.
He shook his head. “He’s the reason—”
“No,” she interrupted, smiling through the tremor in her voice. “You are.”
The air behind her shimmered. The world fractured into fragments—bells, frost, laughter, the smell of pine and candlelight—all the small pieces of everything he’d broken trying to make kindness eternal.
“I thought if I could make the giving last,” he said, voice breaking, “then what we lost wouldn’t be wasted.”
“Nothing’s wasted,” she whispered. “Not if you forgive.”
The bear glowed brighter, gold leaking through its seams with every word she left unsaid.
“You never betrayed me,” she told him. “You just didn’t believe I could love you past your mistakes.”
He reached for her hand, but she was already turning to light—edges softening, form dissolving into glow.
“I didn’t forgive Nick,” he said, desperation cracking him open. “I couldn’t—”
“Then forgive yourself first.”
The bear pulsed once, radiant and alive.
The world shattered into brightness.
Chuck gasped awake in the sleigh, breath catching, tears hot on his face.
The bear rested in his lap, warm and humming, seams lit from within.
Dax sat at the driver’s post, cigar unlit, watching him with eyes far too kind.
I kept my head down, quill scratching quietly. “Entry,” I said, “the wizard cries, and the universe applauds.”
“Shut up,” Chuck whispered.
But his voice shook, and beneath the coat, the bear hummed its approval—low and steady, the sound of forgiveness taking root.
