The Things We Repair
Copyright© 2026 by Flubu
Epilogue: For Home
Christmas morning arrived quietly, and Daniel disliked that. He had expected something more decisive: a snowstorm, power outage, cattle emergency or tree across the lane, some practical crisis generous enough to occupy the part of his mind that knew exactly how many days had passed since Takuhai disappeared.
Instead, December twenty-fifth arrived clear and painfully bright, with blue sky, hard snow and a temperature of minus twenty-one—the kind of cold that made fence wire sing when the wind touched it.
Daniel woke at six seventeen. Alone. He knew where Neris should have been before he opened his eyes. That was improving. Or becoming familiar. He had not decided which. Her scent had faded from the pillow, without disappearing yet. The farmhouse seemed to be doing the same thing. Rebalancing itself. Neris’s absence was becoming part of the architecture.
Daniel got out of bed. His monitor glowed green. His pelvis no longer required the support frame inside the house. Mara had approved limited unsupported walking two days earlier and immediately warned him not to interpret that as permission to become stupid. Daniel had told her the distinction was subjective. She had extended his tractor prohibition.
Claire claimed cause and effect.
Downstairs, the Christmas tree lights were on. Daniel stopped halfway into the kitchen. The tree had appeared three days earlier. Claire had bought it. Daniel had objected. She had ignored him. Marcel had brought ornaments from his house because Daniel’s old boxes were buried behind equipment in the attic.
Edith had somehow heard Claire was staying and sent enough baking for a regional emergency. This had not reduced her production.
The farmhouse smelled of coffee. Cinnamon. Pine. Very faintly, something else remained that Daniel no longer trusted himself to identify accurately.
Claire stood at the counter wearing pyjamas and one of Daniel’s old sweatshirts.
“You’re up.”
“So are you.”
“I made coffee.”
“Christmas miracle.”
She handed him a mug.
Blue.
Daniel looked at it.
Claire followed his eyes.
The maple receiver sat at the end of the table. Dark. Daniel had checked it at six eighteen. Once. Nothing. Eight days. Still inside the corridor transit timeframe where no messages could be sent. Silence compatible with operational planning. Daniel hated how competent past Daniel and Neris had been.
Claire leaned against the counter.
“Marcel and Anne are coming at noon.”
Daniel looked up.
Claire smiled. “Marcel said Christmas lunch was less suspicious than continuing to invent reasons not to invite her.”
Daniel drank coffee.
“What happens if she asks about the weird medical equipment?”
“We lie.”
Daniel looked at her. Claire shrugged. “I’m adapting.”
He smiled despite himself.
The morning passed with cattle first. Marcel had already done most of the work, and Daniel was allowed into the barn but not to lift, climb or operate anything with an engine. He complained; Marcel ignored him. Mabel behaved badly, and Daniel felt grateful. At ten thirty, he returned to the farmhouse.
Claire was standing beside the tree. A small wrapped package sat in her hands.
Daniel stopped. “What’s that?”
“Yours.”
“From who?”
Claire looked at him. Daniel knew. Something inside him tightened so quickly he had to breathe through it. “When?”
“She gave it to me before she left.”
Daniel stared. “You had that for eight days?”
“She told me it was for Christmas.”
“You’re terrible.”
“I know.”
Daniel looked at the package. It was wrapped in plain brown paper. No ribbon. A narrow line of string around it. The wrapping had been done carefully but not expertly. One corner folded too far inward.
Neris.
Daniel knew before touching it. He set his coffee down. Claire held it out. Daniel took the light, modest package, the kind that should have contained something ordinary.
He looked at Claire. “She said Christmas?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
Claire shook her head. “Open it.”
Daniel sat at the table. The receiver remained dark a metre away. He hated that they occupied the same field of vision. A message that had not arrived. A gift from someone whose fate he did not know. Daniel loosened the string. He tried to preserve the paper and failed. Neris would have laughed at that. Inside was a folded piece of ship cloth. Daniel stopped. He knew the fabric. Soft. Dark. The kind Neris used around her grooming supplies. His hands became unsteady.
Claire sat opposite him.
Daniel unfolded the cloth. The grooming brush inside was hers, not a replacement. The one he had used on her tail. The handle was worn faintly where her paws had held it for years. Beside it lay the finer comb. A small trimming tool and two sealed containers lay beside the dark bottle of saleth oil. Daniel did not touch anything for several seconds.
He looked at Claire. “No.”
Claire’s eyes filled.
Daniel looked back at the kit. “She was taking this.”