By the time the first snowflake drifted past his window, the city below was already wearing its winter disguise.

Edinburgh, on any other night, was noise and motion. Tourists trampling cobblestones, taxis honking at impossible angles, laughter spilling out of pubs, the occasional street musician coaxing a tune out of frozen fingers.

But on Christmas Eve, everything softened.

Snow fell in a slow, deliberate curtain over the old stone buildings. Light glowed honey-gold from windows and reflected off the dusting of white on rooftops and railings. The castle, perched on its dark rock, wore a halo of frost, floodlights catching the swirling flakes and making them sparkle.

From his apartment, perched high above Princes Street with floor-to-ceiling windows and a clear view of the castle, Matthias Kerr could see it all.

He had designed it that way—well, had paid someone very handsomely to design it that way. When you sell your first company at thirty and your second at thirty-six, people will build you whatever fortress in the sky you want.

The fortress was perfect.

Climate-controlled, artfully lit, curated down to the last scatter cushion. The grand fir tree in the corner stood straight and tall, branches heavy with white fairy lights and crystal ornaments imported from somewhere expensive that the designer had mentioned and Matthias had forgotten. A star of brushed silver crowned the top. The tree belonged on the cover of a magazine. It smelled like December and pine oil and a faint hint of the orange slices Ana had tucked among the branches earlier when she thought he wasn’t paying attention.

Everything looked exactly as Christmas was supposed to look in glossy adverts for expensive whiskey and watches.

And yet the silence pressed in on him like a second layer of glass.

He stood with one hand in his pocket, the other wrapped around a tumbler of scotch. The good stuff. The kind his father liked to remind him could pay someone’s mortgage for a month.

He stared at his reflection in the window, the city superimposed around his ghostly outline.

Dark hair just beginning to go silver at the temples. Jawline still sharp, thanks to a trainer and good genes. Fine suit, open at the collar now, tie discarded on a chair. Bare feet on the warmed hardwood floor. Man in his early forties, financially secure, professionally respected, personally… hollow.

He lifted the glass slightly in a toast to no one.

“Cheers,” he murmured to his own reflection. His breath fogged the glass for a second, obscuring the castle lights.

He remembered Christmases as a child.

Not the decorations—they’d been splendid, of course, in the Kerr family. Wreaths on every door of the big house in Morningside, a tree in every reception room, silver polished until you could see your face in it. The caterers had cooked. The household staff had decorated. His mother had supervised.

His father had spent most of the day on the phone with overseas branches of the firm, talking about inventory and markets and things Matthias didn’t understand at twelve and understood all too well now.

“Duty doesn’t take holidays,” Sir Malcolm Kerr used to say, patting Matthias on the shoulder. “You’ll see. One day you’ll thank me.”

He hadn’t. Not yet.

Matthias had grown up to take what his father had built and make it bigger, faster, more profitable. He’d turned a respectable Scottish textile firm into a global logistics and e-commerce beast. “Kerr International” now had offices in twenty-two countries. His face appeared in business magazines, his opinions quoted at conferences.

His personal life, however, could fit on a sticky note and still leave room for a doodle.

He had girlfriends—had had. Attractive, accomplished women who knew how to accompany him to events, how to laugh at his father’s dry comments, how to not ask for more than he could give. None of them had lasted past the moment they realized “more” wasn’t coming.

He had friends. A few, real ones, from school and university. But they had families of their own now. Dinner invites had slowly changed from “Just us, like old times” to “Come by if you like, but it’ll be chaos and kids and you might get roped into reading bedtime stories.”

He always found reasons to be too busy.

You get used to certain kinds of silence. They become armor.

He was considering whether to pour another drink—knowing full well it wouldn’t help the ache, only blur it—when he heard the soft sound of footsteps on the polished floor.

Not heavy. Not urgent. Familiar.

“Ana?” he called, surprised. She usually left by seven on the dot on Christmas Eve. Her contract didn’t require working holidays, but she always insisted on making sure the tree lights were on and everything tidy before she left.

His housekeeper appeared in the doorway, wrapping a scarf around her neck. Her coat, a sturdy navy wool, was already buttoned. Dark hair pulled back in a low ponytail. Tired eyes, but kind. Ana Morales had been with him for three years. She’d come from Madrid originally, taking the job when her husband’s work brought them to Scotland. Then her husband had left, citing “cultural differences” and the stress of being in a foreign country.

Ana had stayed. She needed work. Matthias needed someone to keep his life from collapsing into takeout boxes and laundry avalanches.

It had been… transactional at first. Then, slowly, it had become something more familiar. Not quite family. Not quite just employment. Something in between.

“We’re heading home now, Mr. Kerr,” she said. She always called him that, though he’d told her to use his first name. Old habits. “I’ve left the roast in the oven. You only need to take it out in forty minutes.”

“Thank you,” he said, though he suspected he’d let it cool there, untouched. “Merry Christmas, Ana.”

“Merry Christmas,” she replied, with a little smile that didn’t reach all the way but tried.

A smaller figure stepped from behind her, like a shadow separating itself from its source.

Lucia.

Six years old, though she insisted she was “almost seven,” as if the extra year would grant her more authority. She had Ana’s dark hair but her father’s green eyes. Tonight, they shone with the reflected lights from the tree. She clutched a paper snowman, carefully cut out of an old magazine and colored in with crayons. Its head was slightly lopsided. One arm was longer than the other. It was, in Matthias’s opinion, perfect.

He wasn’t sure when, exactly, Lucia had decided his apartment was hers too. It had happened slowly. First a forgotten scarf. Then a coloring book left on the coffee table. Then one of her little stuffed bunnies turning up mysteriously in the guest room.

He hadn’t minded.

He minded even less when she marched up to the tree, scrutinized it critically, and declared, “It needs more color. It’s too boring and rich.”

He’d laughed in spite of himself then.

Tonight, she stopped mid-step. Tilted her head. Looked at him.

“Mister,” she said, “why are you spending Christmas all by yourself?”

Ana went still. “Lucia,” she hissed. “No seas mala educada—don’t be rude.”

Lucia frowned. “It’s not rude. It’s a question.”

Matthias opened his mouth, closed it.

Why, indeed.

Because he’d pushed everyone away who might have stayed. Because his father valued strength over sentiment. Because somewhere along the way, he’d mixed up solitude with safety.

His throat felt dry. “The party I was supposed to go to was cancelled,” he said, the lie tasting thin even to his own ears.

Lucia’s eyes narrowed like she could tell.

“Lucia, let’s go,” Ana said, shifting the bag on her shoulder. “It’s late. We have to catch the bus.”

She hesitated.

“Mr. Kerr,” she added more formally, “my brother Miguel and his family are coming over tonight. We’re just having a small dinner. Very simple. You know… lots of food so my mother can complain it’s too much and then send everyone home with leftovers.” She smiled apologetically. “If you’d ever like to join us, you’d be—”

“You would be welcome!” Lucia blurted, bouncing on her toes. “You can sit next to me. We have too much pudding. Aunt Rosa made three and we are only eight people. Mamá says she doesn’t know how to count.”

Ana laughed despite herself. “Lucia…”

Matthias felt a strange sensation. Like someone had opened a door in his ribcage and let in a gust of warm air.

He cleared his throat. “That’s very kind,” he said. “But I wouldn’t want to intrude on family.”

“You wouldn’t,” Ana said softly. “It’s… just us. And we have a chair.”

“Our angel is crooked,” Lucia added, as if that were vital intelligence. “On top of our tree. She always falls to one side. You can help fix it.” She frowned in concentration. “Number twelve on Glenwood Street. The one with the crooked angel.”

“Lucia, enough,” Ana said. She looked at him, cheeks tinged pink. “I just… no one should be alone on Christmas, Mr. Kerr.”

No one should be alone on Christmas.

The words echoed Lucia’s question, but heavier now, weighted with adult knowing.

He gave a faint smile. “Thank you,” he said again. “I… I’ll think about it.”

“Think fast,” Lucia advised. “We start eating at nine so my uncle doesn’t starve to death before dessert.” She ran toward the door, boots squeaking on the floor.

Ana shook her head, exasperation and affection warring in her expression. “We’ll see you after the holiday,” she said.

The door opened. Cold air rushed in, bringing with it the smell of snow and fried food from the takeaway downstairs.

“Feliz Navidad,” Lucia sang out as they stepped into the night.

“Feliz Navidad,” he answered, surprising himself.

The door clicked shut.

Silence folded itself around him again.

He tried to go back to his scotch.

He really did.

He picked up the glass from where he’d left it on the side table, swirled the amber liquid, watched the way the tree lights refracted through it.

He sat on the leather sofa opposite the tree, perfectly positioned to admire its symmetry.

He flipped the TV on, scrolled past news channels and old black-and-white Christmas films, and landed on a streaming menu he didn’t really see.

No one should be alone on Christmas.

He remembered Lucia’s earnest little face, tilted up toward his.

Why are you spending Christmas all by yourself?

Because that’s what people like me do.

The thought was bitter.

He pushed himself up and wandered to the window again. The city was a postcard. The castle lit up like something out of a storybook. Strings of lights zigzagged across Princes Street Gardens below. He could see couples walking arm in arm, hats pulled down, laughter puffing in the cold air.

Life was happening.

Below.

Not in this glass box.

He thought of Ana’s description.

Just us… food we probably overcooked.

He thought of his own empty dining table, laid with fine china that had never seen gravy or accidently spilled peas.

He thought of his father.

And then he thought of something he hadn’t in a long time—what he wanted, not what was expected of him.

At 8:45, he grabbed his coat.

It was a dark wool overcoat, tailored to fit him perfectly. It should have made him feel distinguished. It felt, instead, like armor he didn’t need tonight.

He shoved his feet into boots, stuffed his scarf into his pocket, grabbed the small bottle of good Italian wine Ana had once mentioned her brother liked, then stuffed that into a bag as well.

He hesitated at the door, hand on the handle.

You don’t just show up at your employee’s family Christmas, the voice in his head said. It’s inappropriate. It’s crossing lines. It’s—

He opened the door.

The lift was empty. The hallway smelled faintly of someone’s burned attempt at Yorkshire puddings. He half jogged down the three flights of stairs, driven by something that felt very much like being late for something important.

Outside, the snow had thickened. It crunched faintly under his boots as he turned up his collar against the wind. He flagged a taxi, climbed in, and gave the driver the address.

“Glenwood Street?” the driver confirmed. “Bit out the way for you, isn’t it, sir? Most folk from up here head for Stockbridge or George Street.”

“Something like that,” Matthias said.

The cab dropped him at the corner where the road curved. Glenwood was quieter than the streets near his flat. Mostly terraced houses. Small front gardens with hedges. A few strings of colored lights slapped onto fences, one or two inflatable Santas surrendering to the wind.

Number ten had a tasteful wreath. Number fourteen had a blow-up snowman lit from within, leaning to one side like it was about to give up.

Number twelve had an angel.

The tree inside pressed against the front window, lights tangled through its branches, decorations mismatched and homemade. At the top of the tree, listing to the right, was a plastic angel whose halo had seen better days.

Crooked, just as promised.

Warm light spilled out through the curtains. Voices, faint but unmistakably alive, flowed with it.

He stood on the front step, heart beating a little too fast.

For a man who’d negotiated deals worth millions across a boardroom table, knocking on a modest door in a row of modest houses shouldn’t have felt like this.

He raised his hand and knocked.

The sound was swallowed quickly by the warmth inside.

Footsteps. A thump—something falling over. A woman’s voice, “Lucia, pick up the shoes, por favor—no, not with your feet!”

The door opened.

Ana stood there, hair frizzing slightly from the kitchen steam, cheeks flushed, apron smeared with what looked like flour and maybe gravy. She blinked once, twice.

“Mr. Kerr,” she said, surprise stretching his name into three syllables. “You…”

“I hope I’m not too late,” he said, suddenly unsure of himself for the first time in years. He held up the bag awkwardly. “I brought… wine? And, um, myself.”

Her face softened.

“You’re right on time,” she said. “Come in.”

She stepped aside. He stepped over a pile of shoes that truly did look like they had been moved with someone’s feet.

The warmth hit him immediately. Not just the temperature difference between outside and inside, but something else.

Smell.

Roast chicken. Something with garlic. The faint sweetness of cinnamon. Wax from candles. A hint of detergent from freshly washed tablecloths. None of it designer. All of it real.

The living room was small. The furniture was mismatched—one sofa with a slipcover, two chairs that looked like they came from different lives. A TV stood in one corner, paused on a cartoon. Paper snowflakes hung from the curtain rod, taped unevenly. The crooked angel presided over a tree whose branches sagged under the weight of ornaments—some shop-bought, some clearly crafted by small hands.

In the adjacent kitchen, which opened directly into the living space, pots steamed on the hob. An older woman stirred something in a pan, scolding someone for “stealing the crispy bits,” to which someone else responded with a laugh and absolutely no regret.

Conversations overlapped, Spanish mixing with English, punctuated by bursts of laughter. A man he assumed was Miguel stood at the counter carving a second chicken, sleeves rolled up, belly shaking as he laughed at someone’s joke.

The noise hit Matthias like a wave.

Then, a smaller wave.

“YOU CAME!”

Lucia barrelled into his side, colliding with his hip and almost knocking the bag from his hand. She wore a red dress with snowmen on it, green tights, and two different socks.

Her paper crown—one of the cheap ones from Christmas crackers—sat askew on her head.

“You left the tower of loneliness,” she said solemnly, as if announcing a historic event.

“The… what?” he asked, bewildered.

“That’s what she call your apartment,” Miguel called from the kitchen, grinning. “The tower of loneliness. And the balcony is the sad prince place.”

“Miguel,” Ana said sharply, mortified.

“It’s quite accurate,” Matthias said dryly. “I may have to rename it.”

He held out the bag to Ana. “For your dinner,” he said. “If it’s drinkable. I have terrible taste.”

Miguel swooped in, plucked the bottle from the bag, and whistled. “Terrible taste, he says. This is worth more than my car.”

“Then pour it carefully,” Ana said. “Don’t drink it all yourself.”

Someone pulled a chair out from the small dining table. “Sit!” the older woman said, waving a wooden spoon. “If you stand, I have to cook more to make up for the calories.”

“That’s my mother,” Ana whispered. “She thinks feeding people solves everything.”

“She may be onto something,” Matthias murmured, sitting down.

The tablecloth was old, floral, a little threadbare in places. Mismatched plates were set with more enthusiasm than style. A vase of slightly wilted supermarket roses stood in the center, surrounded by candles of varying heights.

Lucia climbed into the chair next to him, legs swinging. She pushed a paper crown toward him. “You have to wear it,” she said. “It’s the law.”

He blinked. “Is it?”

“Yes,” she insisted. “If you don’t, the pudding will curse you.”

He didn’t fully understand, but he’d faced dragons; he could face pudding curses.

He put on the crown. It tore slightly when it caught on his hair. Lucia clapped.

“There,” she said. “Now you’re… King of Not Alone.”

Ana slid a plate in front of him. “I hope you’re hungry,” she said. “My mother cooks as if she’s feeding a football team.”

“Always cook more,” her mother chimed in, bringing a dish of roasted potatoes. “If there’s leftovers, there’s lunch. If there’s no leftovers, someone went home hungry.” She eyed him critically. “You look like you could use extra.”

He smiled. “I probably could.”

They ate.

The roast chicken was incredible. Crisp skin, juicy meat, flavors that had nothing to do with truffle oil and everything to do with someone knowing exactly how long to leave something in the oven by instinct, not timer.

The potatoes were, as Lucia had promised, perfect for crunching. There was rice studded with peas and carrots, a salad covered in a dressing that made Matthias want to lick his fork, and bread that most likely came from a supermarket but tasted better here than any artisan loaf he’d had in his conspicuously fancy kitchen.

Conversation swirled around him. People teased each other.

“Mamá, you put too much salt.”

“One day you will cook and I will complain, and we will see how you like it.”

Miguel told a story about getting locked out of his flat in his pajamas. Lucia interjected with corrections that made the story funnier and more embarrassing.

They asked Matthias questions. Not about market trends or expansion plans. Little things.

“Do you like football?” Miguel asked. When Matthias admitted he didn’t follow it closely, Miguel gasped as if he’d confessed to a crime. “We will fix this,” he declared. “You’re in Scotland. You must pick a team to be disappointed by.”

Ana’s mother asked, “Do you have family here?”

Matthias hesitated. “My father,” he said. “He lives in New Town. My mother passed away some years ago.” Or, more precisely, drank herself into an early grave when she realized there were no more parties to look forward to. “We… aren’t close.”

“You have a brother? Sister?”

“Only child,” he said. “Unless my father has a secret second family somewhere, which is always possible.”

That got a laugh.

The warmth of their teasing wrapped around him like another blanket. He felt his shoulders drop, tension he hadn’t been aware of easing.

After plates were cleared (over his protestations that he should help, which Ana’s mother waved away with “You are guest. Sit.”), Miguel pulled out a battered guitar.

“Alright,” he said. “Time for bad singing.”

The first few chords were clumsy but heartfelt. Traditional carols, but sung with the kind of gusto that made up for lack of precision.

Lucia climbed onto Matthias’s lap uninvited, setting her elbow carefully on his thigh so she could lean closer to the guitar.

“You have to sing too,” she instructed.

“I don’t—”

“Just the la-la-la’s,” she said. “Nobody listens. They all sing wrong anyway.”

He laughed. “Fair enough.”

He sang.

Poorly.

Surrounded by others who did too, it didn’t matter.

At some point, someone snapped a photo—Miguel, probably. The flash made Lucy squint, eyes scrunching as she grinned up at Matthias, paper crown slipping off her head. His own crown tilted to one side, he looked at her with something that, if he’d seen the photo later, he wouldn’t have recognized in himself.

Joy.

Ana brought out pudding. It was slightly overcooked around the edges, the sugar a little too caramelized. It was, as Lucia had promised, abundant.

“I told you we had too much,” she said, spooning another portion onto his plate. “If you hadn’t come, we would all explode.”

“What a terrible fate,” he said dryly, taking it.

When the plates were scraped clean, when the guitar was put away and Lucia had fallen asleep on the sofa with her dragon of a dog—Max—a small brown mutt, lying protectively at her feet, Ana approached him with a small box.

Brown paper. Tied with red yarn. Not the kind of present he was used to.

“For you,” she said, almost shy.

He blinked. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know,” she said. “But we wanted to.”

He untied the yarn carefully, smoothed the paper without tearing it.

Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a small wooden ornament.

A house.

Hand-carved, a little uneven at the edges. The windows had been scratched in with something sharp. A tiny crooked chimney perched on one side. The wood had been polished but not varnished. It felt warm in his hand, as if it had been held by others.

On the front, in neat but slightly shaky letters, one word had been burned into the grain.

Welcome.

He swallowed.

“I… don’t remember the last time someone gave me a gift that wasn’t because they wanted something,” he said.

“Not everyone wants something,” Ana replied softly. “Sometimes they just… want you there.”

His phone vibrated in his pocket.

Of course it did.

He pulled it out.

“Father,” he said, seeing the name on the screen.

Ana’s gaze flicked to the display, then back to his face.

“Do you need to—?”

“I should… take this,” he said. Old habits.

She nodded, understanding too much.

“On the steps,” she said. “Less noise.”

He stepped outside, closing the door behind him.

The cold hit him after the cocoon of warmth like a slap. The snow had deepened. It muffled the sounds of the city. Only a few distant fireworks popped in the air.

He answered.

“Matthias.”

His father never said hello. It was always his name, like a summons instead of a greeting.

“Evening, Father.”

“I see you didn’t take my advice about that monstrosity of a tie you wore to the charity gala,” Sir Malcolm began. He always opened with criticism. Tradition. “You looked like a magician.”

Matthias smiled faintly despite himself. “I’ll fire my stylist,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“I’ve just been informed,” his father continued, “that you did not attend the Fraser party tonight.”

“I had another engagement,” Matthias said.

“A more important one than the head of the Fraser oil dynasty?” his father demanded. “You do realize their shipping contracts are still the backbone of our Asia distribution. Turning down their invitation—”

“I didn’t turn it down,” Matthias said. “I simply… chose a different way to spend the evening.”

“With whom?” Sir Malcolm’s voice sharpened. “I was told you were seen going into some housing estate in Leith. With your housekeeper.”

Of course.

Someone always watched.

“They invited me for dinner,” Matthias said calmly. “I went.”

“You what?” His father’s voice dropped. Dangerous. “Do you have any idea how that looks?”

“Like a man having Christmas dinner,” Matthias said. “With people he likes.”

“With hired help,” Malcolm snapped. “With a maid and her brat. Are you trying to turn yourself into a tabloid headline? ‘Lonely billionaire seeks comfort in impoverished family’?”

“That’s not what this is,” Matthias said quietly.

“Perception is reality in our world, son,” his father said. “And the reality is you are making the family a laughingstock. We did not build this to have you throw it away on… sentimentality.”

“It’s one night,” Matthias said.

“It’s a pattern,” his father shot back. “You’ve been… unfocused. Turning down events. Implementing these ridiculous ‘wellness’ policies at the firm. Talking about—what was it—mental health resources. Now this.”

“Taking care of our employees is ridiculous?” Matthias asked.

“It’s unnecessary,” his father said. “We pay them. That’s the contract.”

Matthias leaned against the stone railing, the cold seeping through his coat.

“If you want to play at being charitable,” Malcolm continued, “do it with people who matter. Foundations. Donors. Not in some shoebox with someone who cleans your floors. That is not where a Kerr belongs.”

Matthias thought about the table inside. About Lucia placing a paper crown on his head. About Ana’s mother insisting his plate was too empty. About Miguel shoving the last potato at him when his fork hovered uncertainly.

He thought about his own childhood Christmas, eating in a dining room that had more silver than smiles.

“Maybe that’s the problem,” he said quietly. “Believing that where you sit makes you matter.”

“I beg your pardon?” his father said.

“If you feel this much rage about who eats where with whom, Father,” Matthias said, surprised at his own steadiness, “maybe it’s not my company you’re worried about losing. Maybe it’s control.”

There was a dangerous silence.

“I’ll be blunt,” Sir Malcolm said at last. He reverted to his boardroom tone. “You have a choice. Either you cut ties with these people immediately, stop this… nonsense and refocus on your duties, or you do not bother showing your face at the firm again. I will not have my name dragged through the mud because my son has decided to play at being… ordinary.”

Matthias exhaled, the breath fogging in front of him.

The snow hit his face in small, sharp flakes.

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like a boy being scolded.

He felt like a man being asked to choose.

“Then I suppose,” he said, “you should prepare for me not to show my face at the firm again.”

“You don’t mean that,” his father said. “You wouldn’t throw away everything for—”

“Father,” he cut in. “We threw away a lot of things a long time ago. Maybe it’s time to stop.”

He hung up.

His hand shook a little.

Inside, laughter bubbled up again as someone hit a wrong chord on the guitar and tried to cover it with a joke.

He opened the door.

The warmth hit him a second time.

Ana looked up from where she was rinsing dishes, her hands in soapy water, expression cautious.

“Bad news?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “And also… maybe good news.”

She waited.

“My father doesn’t approve,” he said simply.

She huffed a small laugh. “I’d be worried if he did,” she replied.

“Me too,” he said.

She dried her hands on a towel. “Do you care what he approves of?” she asked quietly.

He thought about the years he’d spent chasing that approval. About the deals he’d made, the hours he’d worked, the parts of himself he’d dimmed to fit the shape his father decided was acceptable.

He thought about a six-year-old who had declared him King of Not Alone with a paper crown.

He shook his head.

“Not anymore,” he said.

Her shoulders relaxed, as if that was the answer she’d hoped for.

“Good,” she said simply. “Dessert?”

He laughed.

“Please.”

The next morning, the boardroom at Kerr International felt colder than the street outside.

Seven people sat around the long table—directors, legal counsel, his father at the head. The polished surface reflected the overhead lights, making everything too bright.

Matthias stood at the opposite end, papers in his hand more as a prop than necessity. He’d slept little, but his mind had never felt clearer.

“Matthias,” his father began without preamble, “this is a waste of time. We said what needed to be said last night.”

“Last night, you threatened to cut me out of the company if I didn’t act like the person you want me to be,” Matthias said. “Today, I’m choosing to act like the person I’ve been trying to become.”

The finance director shifted in his seat.

“Look,” Matthias went on, “I know what I bring to this firm. I know the deals I’ve brokered. I also know that if my heart isn’t in it, I become a liability. To myself. To all of you.”

His father scoffed. “You have a responsibility—”

“To our employees,” Matthias cut in. “To the people who’ve given their lives to this company for far less than you and I have taken from it. To our customers. And yes, to you. But I am not a cog in your idea of what makes a Kerr. I am your son. And a human being. And a man who realized last night that if kindness costs me my position, then it is a price I am willing to pay.”

His words hung in the air.

He saw something flicker in the eyes of one of the directors. Surprise. Then respect.

“You’re not serious,” Sir Malcolm said. “You’d walk away? Just like that? Over… this?”

“This isn’t just about Christmas dinner,” Matthias replied. “It’s about the life I want. I’m forty-two, Father. How much longer do I get to blame you for choices I keep making to please you? I’m done.”

He placed a file on the table.

“My shares remain with me,” he said. “I’m not stupid. But I am stepping down from daily operations. Effective immediately. You can arrange the press release however you like. Call it a ‘strategic transition.’”

He smiled slightly. “You’re good at those.”

Silence weighed the room down.

“You can’t just leave,” his father said, sounding—for the first time since Matthias could remember—less like a judge and more like a man who’d been handed a result he hadn’t calculated.

“I can,” Matthias said. “And I am.”

He nodded to the others in the room.

“Thank you,” he said simply. “For everything we’ve done together. I hope you remember I pushed us into the future, even if you don’t like the way I’m bowing out of it.”

He walked toward the door.

“Matthias,” his father called after him. No title this time. No son. Just his name.

He turned.

“You’ll regret this,” Sir Malcolm said, though the conviction had drained from the words.

“Maybe,” Matthias said. “But if I stay and keep pretending this is enough, I’ll regret that more.”

He left without looking back.

The air outside the tall glass building felt sharper. Cleaner. The cold bit his cheeks, made his lungs expand more fully.

He’d thought it would feel like a freefall.

It felt, instead, like taking off a coat he’d been wearing for far too many years.

That evening, he found himself once again standing on Glenwood Street.

The snow from the night before had partially melted, then frozen again, leaving patches of ice that glittered under the streetlamps. The crooked angel was still crooked, leaning even more precariously now.

He knocked.

Ana opened the door, hair pulled up messily, wearing an old jumper that had “Madrid” fading on the front. She looked surprised.

“Mr. Kerr,” she said. “I didn’t expect—”

“It’s Matthias,” he said. The correction felt like more than a name. “If… if the offer still stands.”

She frowned. “Offer?”

He held up the small wooden house ornament, hanging now on a ribbon around his wrist.

“To be… welcome,” he said, feeling ridiculous and entirely sincere all at once.

Her expression softened.

“The offer always stands,” she said. “Come in. Lucia will send a search party if you don’t.”

He stepped inside.

The tree was still lit. The angel still crooked. The smell of yesterday’s spices lingered, layered now with something baking—bread, maybe.

Lucia lay on the sofa under a blanket, watching a cartoon. She sat bolt upright when she saw him.

“You came back!” she exclaimed, as if she’d never doubted but had also fully prepared to be outraged if he hadn’t.

“I did,” he said.

“Good,” she declared. “You missed breakfast. We had pancakes that tasted like burnt hope.”

Ana snorted. “My brother tried to flip them like on TV,” she explained.

“Very dramatic,” Lucia said. “Very smoky.”

“Maybe next time,” Matthias said. “I’ll bring a fire extinguisher as my contribution.”

Lucia hopped off the sofa and tugged his hand. “Come see,” she said. “We kept a space for your ornament.”

She dragged him to the tree and pointed. Near the top, slightly to the left of the crooked angel, there was a gap.

He reached up and hung the little wooden house there, its simple shape catching the light.

The word burned into it gleamed.

Welcome.

He stared at it for a long moment.

He had been welcomed into boardrooms, clubs, exclusive circles all his life.

This felt different.

This felt like someone saying, “We see you. The real you. Not the version on magazine covers.”

He looked around.

At Ana, rolling her eyes at her brother’s attempt at another culinary experiment. At Lucia, arguing with her grandmother about whether “Die Hard” was a Christmas film. At the clutter of shoes by the door. At the slightly too-small sofa that somehow managed to fit three people and a dog.

“Feels like home,” he heard himself say.

Ana glanced at him.

“It is,” she said. “If you want it to be.”

He did.

More than he’d wanted anything in a very long time.

A year later, Edinburgh wore its Christmas coat again.

Snow fell. Lights twinkled. The castle glowed.

Number twelve on Glenwood Street had upgraded its decorations slightly—Miguel had finally fixed the angel so she tilted only a little, claiming perfection would be suspicious. The tree inside was just as chaotic as before, maybe more. Children’s drawings had multiplied on the fridge like snowdrifts.

In the corner of the living room, near the tree, a small wooden house ornament hung in its now-traditional spot.

Its word still gleamed when the lights hit it.

Welcome.

Matthias lifted Lucia—now “practically seven and a half”—so she could place a new paper snowflake high on the branches.

“Careful,” he said. “The angel might take offense and jump.”

“She can jump if she wants,” Lucia said. “There’s a couch underneath. Soft landing.”

Ana walked in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “You two okay with the decorating, or do I need to call an engineer?” she asked.

“We are experts now,” Matthias replied. “We’ve overseen one entire Christmas.”

“Two,” Lucia corrected. “This is your second. You’re not new anymore. You’re a… tradition.”

He liked that.

He liked it even more when Ana leaned against his side, just briefly, their shoulders touching, and didn’t move away.

He had, in the last year, sold some shares. Invested in smaller businesses he actually cared about. Started mentoring young founders who didn’t have fathers who taught them about margins before manners. He’d gone to therapy. He’d said things about his childhood he’d never thought he’d say out loud.

He still had nights where the old loneliness tried to creep back in.

But now, when it did, there was somewhere else to go.

A small brick house with too many shoes by the door and not enough chairs at the table, where the invitation was not written in contract language but in things like:

Ana texting, Mamá made too much stew again. Want some?

Lucia calling, We need a tiebreaker. Is Die Hard a Christmas movie or not?

He still saw his father.

Not often.

There were arguments. There were silences. There was, slowly, the faintest possibility that Malcolm Kerr might someday understand why his son walked away from a throne to sit on a wobbly chair at a kitchen table instead.

Even if he never did, it didn’t matter as much anymore.

Because when Matthias hung that little wooden house each December, he knew something he hadn’t as a child in a big, elegant home.

He belonged.

Not because of his last name.

Not because of the number on his bank statement.

Because a six-year-old in a too-big paper crown had once declared he didn’t have to be alone.

And he’d shown up.

Sometimes, that’s all it takes for a life to change:

A knock on a door.

A crooked angel.

And a small, wooden ornament reminding you that “welcome” isn’t just a word people write on doormats.

It’s a promise you feel down to your bones.

 

The end.