Harrington Manor, New York Colony, Christmas Eve, 1781

Kimberley crept down the darkened stairs toward the kitchen, eager to eat early and avoid another meal under Theodore’s unsettling stare. Greenery had been laid in every room, and the tang of fresh-cut pine followed her, bringing a nudge of comfort. She found the open doorway to the kitchen and stepped toward the larder.

“Who’s there?”

She stopped, then slowly turned toward the voice. “Its me.”

Mrs Winn sat at the long table just inside the halo of light from the kitchen hearth.  She smiled. “Ah, Mary! Come sit in the warmth.” She patted at a worn spot next to her on the wooden bench.

Kimberley hesitated, glancing back at the larder before reluctantly joining the housekeeper, She faced the fire and stretched her cold feet toward it with a grateful sigh.

Mrs Winn arched a silver brow, her lips thinning in disapproval. “No slippers again? Tis not like you to be so forgetful. Are ye tryin’ to catch yer death?”

Kimberley picked at her robe with a shrug.

Mrs Winn considered her. “I know how tis, lass, to feel alone at Christmas time,” she finally said.

Kimberley glanced up, lips parted in surprise.

Her expression softened. “Ye lost yer da, and now yer mam. Yer heart is hurtin’, and nothing can bring comfort.” She paused, measuring her words as the candle flame on the table shivered. “The year after Mr. Winn passed was the hardest,” she began. “The numbness of his death was gone and every feelin’ I had, good or no, was jumpin’ to be let out. And Christmas did not stop because my Henry was gone, no matter my thoughts on the matter.” The corners of her mouth tilted into a sad smile. “On that Christmas Eve I sat in this very spot, knowin’ part of me died with him and wonderin’ how I would live, not being whole. How was I to go on without hearin’ his voice or feelin’ the comfort of him beside me?” She looked at the papers spread before her, filled with lines of her small looping handwriting. “I decided then the only way to keep from goin’ mad was to write him a letter.” She chuckled at Kimberley’s snort of disbelief. “I did. In it I shared all that was in my heart…my fears, my anger at his dyin’, how much I loved him still and how I hoped for better days. I even added bits o’ gossip, just to keep it interestin’ for him.” Her mouth fell to a wistful smile. “Ten whole pages, that first letter was. After, I put it in the fire and watched as bits of it went up the flue. I felt that awful weight lift, and I could finally breathe again. ‘Twas then I knew my words were with him.”

Kimberley shook her head, bewildered. “But why? He couldn’t read it…he’s dead.” Her voice broke.

Mrs Winn placed a calloused finger under her chin. “Sometimes, lass, the miracle is in the believin’.” She motioned to the papers on the table. “I was writin’ this year’s letter when you came.” She picked up the extra quill and a sheet of paper and held them out to her. “I think mayhap yer heart could use a miracle too.”

Kimberley took them and turned to the table. She glanced at Mrs. Winn, lost in the finishing of her own letter, then laid the paper in the candlelight and carefully dipped her quill into the ink well.

Dear Dad,

I am

She hesitated.

safe.

She nodded.

It’s Christmas Eve where I am, Dad. Right now, we should be in front of the TV with popcorn and hot cocoa, watching It’s a Wonderful Life and reciting the lines with George Bailey and Clarence and little Zuzu. Just like we used to do, before Mom died.

She swallowed against the burn of threatening tears.

I miss her, Dad. I wake up sometimes and think I hear her voice. Then I remember she’s gone, and she’s never coming back.

An errant tear rolled off her chin and plopped onto the page.

If I could have one wish, it would be to wake up in my own bed, and hear you yell “Wake up, Peanut! It’s Christmas!” You’d be waiting by the tree, wearing your silly “Kiss Me, I’m Santa” sweater and drinking coffee from your Star Trek mug. And Mom would be there, and she’d give me a kiss that smells like coffee and peppermint, and hug me, really, really tight.

She paused, searching for her next words.

I know by now you must be looking for me, and you’re frantic and worried. I’m nearby, at the old manor next to us. You won’t find me, though. Its crazy, and I don’t know why, or how, but its 1781 where I am and I’m stuck in another girl’s body and I don’t know how to undo any of it. But I will Dad. I will and I’ll find my way home to you.

Love,

Kimmy

She laid down her quill and looked at the splotched and misshapen sentences spilling across the page. She glanced at Mrs. Winn, who was rereading her own letter.

After a long moment the housekeeper pressed a kiss to the pages in her hand and blew out a bittersweet sigh. “Ready, lass?”

Kimberley nodded.

Together they tossed their letters into the fire and watched as the pages blackened and curled. Small bits rose, twirling and dancing with crackling embers, before being carried up the flue and into the promise of the Christmas air.

(c) 2026, Donna Ingraham Senti