Kaia Reyes was born into a world that never gave her a choice—and she stopped asking for one a long time ago. Raised on the edge of chaos and consequence, she learned young that trust gets you killed and softness gets you buried. Her mother vanished when Kaia was eight.

I call Bullshit today

|| ~ Christmas Eve and Day will not be with my family :( I have to make a will to be online ~

And standing here in the soft glow of the lights, it feels like maybe—just maybe—I’m allowed to have this.

It makes the house feel like mine. Like home. Or at least something real, something steady.

Every corner of the place holds a little bit of warmth now, like it finally decided to open itself up. I didn’t think decorating would matter. But looking around, it does.

I sit on the arm of the couch and let myself take it in for a long moment. The hush of the room isn’t empty now—just peaceful. The tree reflects in the window. The stockings sway a little in the draft.

It feels… lived in. Claimed. A place you can breathe in.

It doesn’t look like the same house I walked into an hour ago.

I go back inside and lock the door behind me. Warmth greets me instantly. The lights I hung along the bannister throw a soft glow down the hallway. The tree lights flicker gently. The candles add little pools of gold everywhere.

The sound rolls through the quiet, then disappears.

When I step outside to hang the wreath, the cold air hits me hard enough to sting. I hook it onto the door, brushing stray pine needles off my hands. For a moment I just stand there in the cold, listening to the far-off echo of a bike somewhere on the highway.

The kind of right that doesn’t need to match to make sense.

I take my time with everything else. Garland over the doorway. Candles on the coffee table. A small ceramic village I forgot I’d bought last year. Stockings over the mantle—one plain black, one bright red. They look mismatched, but right.

Lights next. I weave them through the branches, tugging them this way and that until the whole tree glows steady and warm. When I plug it in, the room shifts. It goes from quiet to… settled. Like the house exhales.

I hang it smack in the center of the tree without overthinking it.

The ornaments are a mix—some cheap glass ones, a few hand-painted ones, one metal motorcycle from a swap meet. I turn that one over in my fingers for a moment. The metal is cold and solid, heavier than it needs to be.

Fix it again. I don’t know why I want it perfect, but I do.

The tree goes up next. Fake, but a good one—full branches, sturdy base. I drag it to the corner by the window and fluff the branches out until they look right. When I step back, the shape is uneven. I fix it. Step back again.

It’s simple work, but it feels good, like running thread through cloth, stitching something back together without thinking too hard about it.

I take them to the banister, wrapping the strand slowly, making sure each loop is even. The glow settles over the stairs, softening the sharp edges of the wood.