Chapter Eight

WYATT

On Christmas morning, I woke to a quiet hush settling over the farmhouse. The thin winter light slipped through the curtains, painting the wooden floor in pale stripes. My breath clouded in the cooler air of my room—I'd forgotten to stoke the fire properly last night—and I forced myself out of bed, heart heavy with lingering regret. The emptiness of the house pressed in, reminding me that I'd driven Cassie away with my own fears. Yet here I was, on the most hopeful morning of the year, determined not to let that be the last word.

I dressed quickly in a warm flannel, heavy coat, and wool cap, then stepped outside. The world lay wrapped in a pristine blanket of snow, the sky a delicate watercolor of soft blues and pinks as the sun stretched over the horizon. My boots crunched over the snow as I headed straight toward the Wishing Tree, that old sentinel near the barn, the one I’d grown up knowing but never truly embraced with faith. Until now.

The Wishing Tree’s branches bowed slightly under the weight of ribbon-tied wishes, scraps of paper trembling in the gentle breeze. The air smelled of pine and promise. For all my life, I’d never made a wish on this tree. I’d guarded myself from believing too deeply in its magic. But this morning, I knew what I wanted: Cassie’s forgiveness, a chance to make things right.

My fingers fumbled for the paper and ribbon in the small box at the tree’s base. I tugged off my glove and quickly scribbled the words, ink freezing slightly in the winter chill:

I wish Cassie could forgive me and give me another chance to show her how I feel. I want to learn how to trust again.

The words felt stark and honest. I folded the paper and tied it to a low branch with my heart pounding. For a moment, I closed my eyes and let the quiet wash over me.

When I opened them, I noticed something unusual among the branches—an ornament I hadn’t placed there. It was a delicate glass sphere, catching the early sunlight, refracting it into tiny sparks. A small tag dangled from a ribbon: For Wyatt. My name in neat, careful handwriting.

I reached up and gently lifted the ornament from its perch. The glass was cool to the touch, and inside I could see folded pages of paper. Curiosity spurred me on. Very carefully, I eased off the top of the ornament, letting the folded papers slide into my palm. There were several pages, printed text on crisp white sheets. At the top: By Cassie Monroe . My breath caught.

This must be her article—the one she’d been working on. The one I’d feared would mock the tree, mock me . Hands trembling slightly, I unfolded the pages and began to read.

Her words were humble, honest, and beautifully woven. She admitted how she’d come to Springfield ready to strip away the myth of the Wishing Tree, to expose it as a marketing gimmick. Yet as I read on, I saw how her perspective had shifted, each paragraph revealing how her heart had softened in the presence of our traditions, our kindness, our quiet faith in the power of hope and good things to come. She wrote about Lucille’s unshakable belief, about the Hollies’ miracle baby, about the McCall family finding healing, painting a portrait of Springfield as a place that fostered genuine connection.

And then she spoke of me. She wrote with admiration and affection, capturing the care I put into the farm, the legacy I tried to uphold, and the way I’d shown her the heart of Lawson’s. She acknowledged how she’d misunderstood at first, how fear and skepticism had clouded her judgment, but how she’d learned to see the small wonders embedded in each community tradition. She honored the Wishing Tree not as magic conjured from thin air, but as a vessel for new beginnings. Her words embraced the idea that miracles often come in the form of trust, forgiveness, and people daring to open their hearts.

By the time I finished, I had to dash away tears with the back of my hand. I could hardly believe she’d gone to such lengths to show me, and everyone else, that she understood, that she believed.

A soft sound from behind made me turn. The snow crunched underfoot as Cassie stepped out from behind the broad trunk of the Wishing Tree. She wore a long winter coat, her dark hair tucked into a warm hat, cheeks flushed pink with cold. Her eyes met mine, tentative and hopeful.

“You found it,” she said softly, nodding at the ornament and the article in my hand.

I tried to speak, but the words caught in my throat. Finally, I managed, “Thank you. You…you wrote something beautiful. I…I was so wrong to doubt you.”

She bit her lip, blinking as if holding back tears. “I’m sorry I didn’t explain everything better before. I should have told you exactly what I wanted to write, how I felt.”

Her gaze flicked to the branch where I’d tied my wish. A breeze stirred the papers. I took a shaky breath, stepping closer. The snow muffled our steps, making the world feel smaller, more intimate.

“I let my pride get the better of me,” I admitted, voice rough with emotion. “I’ve seen people treat my family’s tradition like a joke. I didn’t know if you really cared, or if I was just another story angle. But reading your words…Cassie, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for hurting you, for accusing you.”

She looked up, eyes shining. “I forgive you,” she whispered, voice trembling. “I understand your fears now. And I know I didn’t make it easy for you to trust me. But I meant what I wrote. I see the heart of this town, and yours too. I’m not going anywhere.”

Without hesitation, I closed the distance between us. One hand slipped around her waist, the other brushed a strand of hair from her face. Her breath hitched, and when I leaned in, our kiss was gentle and soul-deep, warmer than any hearth fire. All the doubts and anger and misunderstanding melted away. Her lips were soft, her arms winding around my neck as if anchoring us together in this moment of grace.

We parted slightly, foreheads touching, breathing the same frosty air. The Wishing Tree’s branches rustled with a soft sigh.

“Will you stay?” I asked, voice low. “At least through New Year’s?”

She smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’d like that,” she said, heart in her voice. “I don’t want to run back to the city yet. There’s more I want to learn here. More I want to feel. With you.”

Hand in hand, we turned away from the Wishing Tree, walking slowly toward the farmhouse. The snow glittered under the rising sun, and distant carols drifted from some neighbor’s radio, carried on the still morning air. My chest felt lighter than it had in years. For the first time since my grandfather passed, I truly believed this tree and these traditions held a gentle magic—not because they granted wishes like a fairy godmother, but because they inspired people to open their hearts—including my own.

Cassie gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “Merry Christmas, Wyatt,” she said softly.

“Merry Christmas, Cassie,” I replied, and then I stopped and kissed her again.