Chapter 64 PLANNING THE PERFECT CHRISTMAS

Chapter 64 PLANNING THE PERFECT CHRISTMAS

POV: Amara

The ladder wobbles as I reach for the last strand of lights, and I steady it with my knee because I need this to work.
I want this center to feel alive. I want it buzzing with voices, with music, with the kind of warmth people carry home in their coats without realizing it. The pressure sits heavy on me because every hour matters now. Every small choice feels like it could tip the whole thing one way or the other.
“Careful,” Noelle calls from below.
“I’ve got it,” I say, even though my hand slips for a second before finding the hook.
The lights come on in a soft glow. Nothing flashy. Just enough to make the ceiling feel closer, kinder.
People clap anyway.
Rosa wipes her hands on her apron and grins at me. “You’d think you just hung the sun.”
“It feels like that sometimes,” I say.
She laughs and goes back to directing volunteers. The room hums with movement. Someone is testing speakers. Someone else is taping flyers to the windows. A group of kids argues about whether the tree should have red bows or silver ones.
This is what I want. This noise. This mess.
Noelle joins me at the base of the ladder. “The press confirmed,” he says. “Two local stations, one city blog, and a photographer who owes Rosa a favor.”
“That’s more than I hoped for.”
“You aim high,” he says.
I climb down and take the clipboard from him. The schedule is already crowded. Choir rehearsal. Baking night. Story hour with the seniors. A toy drive. A neighborhood potluck.
“Do you think it’s too much,” I ask quietly.
He shakes his head. “It’s exactly enough.”
I let myself breathe for a moment. Just one.
We move through the room together, checking on things. I keep my magic tucked in tight, using it only where it can pass as good luck. A string of lights that stops flickering when someone sighs in relief. A broken ornament that fits back together just enough to hang.
Nothing impossible. Nothing obvious.
A little girl tugs on my sleeve. It’s the one who brought us the letter. Her name is Mia.
“Are you really coming tomorrow,” she asks.
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I say.
She nods, serious. “My mom says this place saved her when she was little.”
I crouch to her level. “Then we’ll make sure it keeps saving people.”
She smiles and runs off.
That night, Noelle and I sit on the steps outside the center, watching volunteers leave in pairs and groups, laughing as they head home.
“You’re doing this the hard way,” he says.
“I know.”
“You could push a little more,” he adds gently. “Use more magic.”
I shake my head. “If it doesn’t belong to them, it won’t last.”
He studies me for a long moment. “You’re right.”
The next day is even busier.
We hold planning meetings that spill into the hallway. Someone brings hot chocolate. Someone else brings a stack of old photos to display on the walls. Stories come with them. Good ones. Sad ones. All of them real.
I listen more than I talk.
That night, I feel it. A faint drag under my ribs, like a current pulling the wrong way. I stop mid step.
“You feel that,” Noelle says.
“Yes.”
“It’s not strong,” he says. “But it’s there.”
“I know,” I reply. “He’s watching.”
We do not say Malachi’s name. We do not give it space.
Two days before the event, the snow starts falling early.
It is light and quiet, the kind that softens sound. People arrive anyway. They always do. We are testing the final schedule when the door opens and a man in a city jacket steps inside.
He carries a clipboard too.
“Who’s in charge here,” he asks.
Rosa steps forward. “I am.”
He glances around, already bored. “City inspection.”
My hand tightens on the table edge.
“We weren’t notified,” Rosa says.
He shrugs. “Spot check.”
Noelle moves closer to me. “Something’s wrong.”
The inspector walks slowly, tapping walls, glancing at ceilings. He makes notes without explaining them. He frowns at a crack that has been there for years. He shakes his head at an outlet that works just fine.
“This building is unsafe,” he says finally.
Rosa laughs once. “That’s ridiculous.”
He peels a bright orange notice from his clipboard and slaps it on the wall.
Condemned.
I stare at the word. It does not feel real.
“You have forty eight hours,” he says. “Then demolition begins.”
“That’s impossible,” I say. “We have an event.”
He meets my eyes for the first time. There is nothing there. “Not anymore.”
He leaves as quickly as he came.
The room goes silent.
Mia starts crying.
“No,” she says over and over. “No no no.”
Rosa sinks into a chair. “He paid him,” she whispers. “He finally paid someone enough.”
I walk to the notice and read it again, slower this time. Fake violations. Vague language. Everything designed to shut us down fast.
“We’re too late,” someone says.
The words land hard.
My magic stutters. Just for a second. A light goes out above the tree.
Noelle notices. “Amara.”
I cannot move.
All I can see are the hours we poured into this place. The hands that hung lights. The voices that practiced songs. The hope that grew like a careful flame.
Mia clutches my coat. “You promised.”
I kneel and hold her, because that is something I can still do.
“I know,” I say. “I know.”
The room fills with murmurs. Anger. Fear. People arguing about lawyers and protests and whether it is even worth fighting anymore.
I stand.
“We are not done,” I say.
They look at me.
“We still have forty eight hours,” I continue. “That’s time.”
“For what,” someone asks.
I look at the notice again. My heart pounds, not with fear, but with choice.
“To remind the city what it’s about to lose,” I say. “Even if they tear it down.”
Noelle steps beside me. “We can take this public. Now.”
“Tonight,” I add.
Phones come out. Messages are sent. Rosa straightens her shoulders.
“If they want a fight,” she says, “they picked the wrong family.”
As the room fills with motion again, I feel the shadow pull tighter, sharper this time.
Across the street, unseen by all of us, Malachi smiles.
“Good,” he whispers. “Let hope rise.”
Because he knows how much it hurts when it falls.