Every Christmas Eve, they visited the tiny grave. Lorcan would conjure up a wreath of Christmas roses and Molly would lay them on the grace of their baby, their tiny Arrosa, who would never grow up, never see her mother's eyes or hear her father's laugh.
"We'd better go, Molls," Lorcan said gently, wrapping his arm around his wife's waist. "It's starting to snow."
Molly sighed and rubbed at her eyes. "Yes, we should," she agreed. "Give me one more minute?"
Lorcan didn't say anything, but kissed the top of her head, where a snowflake had settled.
Molly stared at the grave for a moment longer, then sniffed and whispered, "Happy Christmas, Arrosa." Then, turning to her husband, she whispered, "Let's go home, Lorc."
Leaning on each other, the pair made their way across the cemetery, through the gate, and out of sight, leaving nothing but the snow gently yet steadily falling against the gray winter sky.