Christmas Eve, 1987. Luna's aunt sends her to deliver a yew-and-holly wreath to a reclusive neighbor on Gray Forks Road—a gravel lane that dead-ends at the marsh. The old man, Mr. Harlow, hasn't spoken to anyone in years, but his porch light is always on. When Luna gets there, the wreath she carries begins to feel wrong: the berries too dark, the needles too sharp against her palm. She knocks. The door opens. And what she sees on his kitchen table—a wreath identical to the one in her hands, but made of something else—makes her understand why the house never needed visitors. A winter story about gifts we cannot give back.

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