10-15-2025, 01:21 AM
Jensen smiled as Marta spoke, her warmth softening the edges of the cold night. She talked with that bright sincerity, that mix of wit and wonder, that reminded him of the kids in the church. Before life had turned complicated, before Moscow, before the long silence from home.
“Well, Miss Splash,” Jensen murmured, crouching as the little wolf-dog sniffed his outstretched hand, “I’m honored to make your acquaintance.” He scratched gently behind her ear as instructed, and the animal leaned into it, eyes half-closed in bliss. “You’ve got good taste in company,” he added, glancing up at Marta with a glint of warmth.
She had a kind of light about her, that rare self-possession some people never grow into. Her story about the angel drew an amused hum from him. “A healer, you say? I think I like that,” he said quietly, eyes returning to the statue. “If the Lord does send angels to heal, I reckon She might be one of ’em. Doesn’t seem right that her name’s been lost, though. Every good thing ought to be remembered.”
He straightened when she offered her hand, gloved fingers gentle as he shook it. “Marta,” he repeated, then to the man beside her, “Ricky. Pleasure to meet you both.” The accent in the man’s voice made him smile wider, a faint glimmer of recognition flickering in his eyes. He didn't say anything about it, not wanting to pry, but it made him feel nostalgic.
His chuckle was easy, but as the conversation flowed, a stillness lingered beneath it. Watching the two of them together, he felt that familiar ache stir in his chest. A small, private longing. Family. Connection. A home filled with laughter instead of empty rooms, tv, and books.
He masked it behind a gracious nod. “You’re right, sir. Midnight Mass is special. There’s a peace to it…all the more for this midnight mass.”
When Marta began to sing, Jensen’s heart caught. The melody floated up into the winter air, her young voice wrapping itself around the words like an offering. He found himself humming the next line under his breath, just enough for her to hear, his baritone deep and gentle. When the song faded, he said softly, “That’s a fine hymn. My mother used to sing that one.”
For a moment, the snow whispered between them. Then he stepped back, brushing a gloved hand over his coat sleeve. “You’ve both been very kind,” he said, voice warm but quieter now. “Thank you for that. I didn’t mean to keep y’all out here in the cold.”
He looked once more to the angel, her stone wings draped in snow. “I think maybe I’ve got some dinner to attend tomorrow after all,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Wouldn’t do to turn down a kind invitation for Christmas.”
When he turned back to them, the melancholy in his eyes was tempered by something. He nodded once. “Merry Christmas, Marta. Ricky. And to you too, Splash.”
Then, with one last faint smile, he adjusted his scarf and stepped away into the snow, intentionally choosing to be as forgotten as the name of the statue behind them.
“Well, Miss Splash,” Jensen murmured, crouching as the little wolf-dog sniffed his outstretched hand, “I’m honored to make your acquaintance.” He scratched gently behind her ear as instructed, and the animal leaned into it, eyes half-closed in bliss. “You’ve got good taste in company,” he added, glancing up at Marta with a glint of warmth.
She had a kind of light about her, that rare self-possession some people never grow into. Her story about the angel drew an amused hum from him. “A healer, you say? I think I like that,” he said quietly, eyes returning to the statue. “If the Lord does send angels to heal, I reckon She might be one of ’em. Doesn’t seem right that her name’s been lost, though. Every good thing ought to be remembered.”
He straightened when she offered her hand, gloved fingers gentle as he shook it. “Marta,” he repeated, then to the man beside her, “Ricky. Pleasure to meet you both.” The accent in the man’s voice made him smile wider, a faint glimmer of recognition flickering in his eyes. He didn't say anything about it, not wanting to pry, but it made him feel nostalgic.
His chuckle was easy, but as the conversation flowed, a stillness lingered beneath it. Watching the two of them together, he felt that familiar ache stir in his chest. A small, private longing. Family. Connection. A home filled with laughter instead of empty rooms, tv, and books.
He masked it behind a gracious nod. “You’re right, sir. Midnight Mass is special. There’s a peace to it…all the more for this midnight mass.”
When Marta began to sing, Jensen’s heart caught. The melody floated up into the winter air, her young voice wrapping itself around the words like an offering. He found himself humming the next line under his breath, just enough for her to hear, his baritone deep and gentle. When the song faded, he said softly, “That’s a fine hymn. My mother used to sing that one.”
For a moment, the snow whispered between them. Then he stepped back, brushing a gloved hand over his coat sleeve. “You’ve both been very kind,” he said, voice warm but quieter now. “Thank you for that. I didn’t mean to keep y’all out here in the cold.”
He looked once more to the angel, her stone wings draped in snow. “I think maybe I’ve got some dinner to attend tomorrow after all,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Wouldn’t do to turn down a kind invitation for Christmas.”
When he turned back to them, the melancholy in his eyes was tempered by something. He nodded once. “Merry Christmas, Marta. Ricky. And to you too, Splash.”
Then, with one last faint smile, he adjusted his scarf and stepped away into the snow, intentionally choosing to be as forgotten as the name of the statue behind them.