The fundraiser was still in full motion, its soft light spilling from windows and doors into the cool night. Inside, the scent of warm punch and cinnamon pastries lingered, mixing with the rustle of coats and laughter that stretched only so far before falling into hushes.
Sarah moved toward the refreshment table, drawn by a modest crowd and the comforting scent of apple spice. The table itself was simple—plastic folding legs, a gingham tablecloth, rows of paper cups, and a large glass bowl brimming with punch.
As she reached for a cup, someone else reached, too.
Their hands almost touched.
The man smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. He wore a volunteer lanyard, but the name tag was turned backward. His fingers lingered near the ladle longer than they needed to.
Sarah froze.
Just a second.
Just enough.
A wave of unease fluttered in her stomach, irrational and cold.
⸻
From the far side of the room, Mia's gaze had been drifting—cataloging the quiet details, staying near the wall-mounted affirmations. But when she saw the man by the punch bowl, something cold slid through her.
She didn't know him, but she knew the posture. The proximity. The way he angled his shoulders slightly inward—like rehearsed friendliness that had teeth.
She moved.
Quick. Not rushed.
She passed behind Sarah like wind.
With a steady hand, she reached forward first—plucked a cup from the stack, filled it, and gently nudged Sarah's hand aside with her own.
She smiled at Sarah like they were strangers.
"Here," she said lightly. "This one's warmer."
Sarah blinked, then smiled faintly. "Thanks."
The man stepped back.
No comment. No protest.
He turned away.
Mia didn't follow.
She lingered only long enough to see Sarah sip.
Then slipped back through the crowd.
⸻
The cider was sweet. Too sweet. But Sarah didn't mind.
She moved toward a bench along the wall and sat. Her heart still beat slightly fast.
She wasn't sure why.
Just a moment. A brush of caution. And then… gone.
But the cider had arrived at the right moment.
She pressed the rim of the paper cup to her lips and stared at the streamers above.
They caught the light like spun silk.
⸻
Behind the volunteer check-in, Mia leaned against a supply shelf.
She'd seen the man step out the side exit.
She noted his lanyard. No name. No clipboard.
She pulled out her notebook.
Sketched a small triangle. Labeled it: Shadowed presence.
She didn't need more.
Not yet.
The door clicked behind her. One of the coordinators entered, carrying a box of folded banners.
Mia straightened. Smiled faintly.
"Need help?"
The woman paused. Then nodded gratefully.
Mia took the box.
They didn't speak again. But the weight of the fabric steadied her.
⸻
At the bench, Sarah noticed a folded napkin beside her. No writing. Just creases.
She held it.
Folded it smaller.
Tucked it in her pocket.
She didn't know why.
It just felt… kind.
⸻
The room shifted back into focus—volunteers circulating trays, a boy laughing near the coat rack, slow music returning to fill the background.
Sarah's shoulders settled.
She stood.
Refilled her cup.
This time, her own hand held the ladle.
She served herself.
And turned.
⸻
A new station had opened near the art display—a table covered in blank postcards. Markers. Stickers. Glitter glue.
The sign read: Write something someone might need.
Sarah hovered.
She didn't sit.
Not at first.
Then she picked up a card.
She drew a small spiral in one corner.
Wrote beneath it:
"It's okay not to explain everything."
Then placed it in the tray.
⸻
Mia returned to her spot behind the sound table, her eyes drawn back to the refreshment area.
Sarah wasn't there.
She scanned.
Found her near the postcard table.
Saw the pen in her hand.
Saw the pause.
Then the card drop.
Mia's hand pressed flat over her journal.
She didn't need to record this.
She would remember.
⸻
As the evening wound down, people began to gather their coats, their crafts, their comfort.
Sarah lingered.
One last loop around the room.
She paused by the gratitude wall.
She hadn't written anything.
But she read everything.
One card caught her eye.
Someone saw me when I didn't know how to be seen.
She touched it briefly.
Then stepped away.
Outside, the air had chilled. Volunteers packed away the banners, now spotted with condensation.
Sarah stepped out onto the sidewalk. Her breath came in clouds.
She walked slowly.
No rush.
Mia followed at a distance.
Both of them silent.
Both of them upright.
Both of them walking toward what might finally be called forward.