After that, it was all about getting the house signed over to me. I didn’t want to do anything with it, I just wanted to keep it there. I went to the police station and the detective signed off on the case as a cold case.

“Move on, Megan,” he said. “We’ve had no leads in years.”

The issue was proving that I was their daughter, luckily there was a clause in my father’s will, stating that everything would be mine if he and my mother passed.

For five years after, the house sat empty. I never had the courage to sell it, though. Something about letting it go felt wrong.

So, it just stood there, gathering dust and neglect, frozen in time like a ghost of the past I wasn’t ready to confront.

Until tonight.

It was Christmas Eve. And for reasons I couldn’t explain, I found myself driving toward the old place instead of getting the extra butter that Evan and I needed for the turkey the next day.

The house was abandoned and had been for the past five years. As I drove, I imagined exactly how it would look after all these years. I imagined the cracked front windows and the streaks of graffiti across the walls like battle scars.

I imagined the weeds swallowing the flower beds that my mother used to love, and the wooden porch, which was most likely splintered and sagging under the years of neglect.

When I pulled into the driveway, my chest tightened at the sight of the house.

It was decorated.

Not just randomly decorated, but beautifully decorated. The old garlands of twinkling lights my dad used to string along the eaves were glowing softly against the evening sky.

There was a faded wreath with little bells, which hung crookedly on the front door. There were the familiar plastic candy canes lining the path to the house.

I even recognized the same wooden reindeer we used to set up every December. They were all old and chipped but still standing proudly on the lawn.

My heart raced as I stepped out of the car. How could this be?

Who would have done something like this? No one lived there. No one had for years.

As I walked around, I saw a little generator on the porch. It was hooked up to the lights, fueling them among the rest of the desolate house.

The decorations looked exactly the way my dad used to do them. The same lights, the same setup. A lump formed in my throat. It was like stepping back into my childhood, as if time had rewound itself.

Even if it was just for one night.

I had to know who was behind this. I needed to know if it was real or if it was in my head.

The front door was slightly ajar. I hesitated for a moment, my pulse quick and uneven, before gently pushing it open.

Inside, the house smelled of dust and memories, but the living room…

The living room took my breath away.

A Christmas tree stood by the fireplace, just like the ones from my childhood. It was decorated with mismatched ornaments and too many strands of tinsel. The stockings were hung on the mantel, and beneath the tree were a few wrapped presents, tied with fraying ribbons.

And then I saw him.

A figure sat in front of the fireplace, hunched slightly, silhouetted by the glow of the dying fire.

I couldn’t stop myself. The word slipped from my lips before I could think.

“Dad?” I called.

The figure stirred and turned slowly toward me, the firelight flickering across his face.

It wasn’t my dad.

It was a young man in his mid-thirties, I think. His dark hair was tousled, and his face was shadowed by exhaustion. He wore a threadbare coat, and his cheeks were pink from the cold.

But as soon as I saw him, I knew exactly who he was.