A/N: Must you wear that many layers all the time?
When Amy was five, she noticed there were lines over the frozen river near their house. The lines were thin and long, touching each other every which way, so much like the puzzles she solve with Aunt Doe. Whenever her father's car passed along, she'd always look out the window and trace the lines with her fingers as far as she could see. Until finally, her Dad had let her come out. It's funny how his co-worker was there, too that day. The man was there with his children. They never played with her. And that's alright, Amy didn't mind. Everything's fine, like the conversation his father was having and the happiness she's feeling following the lines over this frozen river on her own.
Amy never got to reach the end of the lines though. Her puzzle was never finished because it was suddenly very, very cold, and the water screamed at her ears and she was just so, so heavy unlike what his father used to say whenever he held her up.
His Dad never saw that coworker after that, the same way she never saw that frozen river again. Mom told her they're moving to a place where there's only sunshine all year round. But Amy's been nothing but cold ever since.
Larry never uses tape when he wraps a gift. He measures the parcel carefully, making sure the wrapping paper would be enough. And they're nice-looking wrappers, too - now so fibrous, sometimes heavily textured, other times subtly scented. Amy loves to watch him fold the paper around the parcel. He'll fold and tuck and fold and tuck until finally the gift is wrapped and she just knows that it's not just paper around that gift, but also love.
It's the same way her mom quilts. It's always fascinating to see her run her palm on fabric as if testing its weight, acquainting herself with its surface. Sometimes she stretches a part of it, checking the warp and weft, already running the patterns on her mind. And she's never wasted any of it - whatever's efficient, whatever's useful, she goes with that. So Amy knows every piece she puts together is cushioned with such care and sensibility.
And then there's Gran. Too bad she's gone too soon. She is Amy's butter cookies and warm milk on a busy afternoon. It was Gran who let her use the fork in her right hand. The first to let her get away with pouring ketchup on her egg. It was to Gran's arms she first ran to when they moved to California. And it was her endless yarns which she patiently knits into sweaters that made Amy feel warm again.
"Sheldon - that's his name?"
"Yes, Dad."
Larry's eyes never went up from wrapping the gift Amy bought for her Mom's birthday. They're seated side by side in her parent's living room.
"You think she'd like it?" The insecurity in her voice was chased away by her father's rare smiles.
"She'd love whatever you'll give her."
"I'm home."
Amy hears her Mom call out from outside the door - the same woman who believes she'd sooner perfect Four Winds than get the best boyfriend. She's immediately pulled into a big hug the moment she sees her.
"I'm sorry Sheldon couldn't make it."
Larry nods, her mother shrugs and then there's only silence in between.
"It's for real this time, I swear," Amy almost whined.
"I know and I met him," her mother says as she heads to the kitchen.
Larry stood and gave Amy's shoulder a comforting squeeze, "Well, there's always next year."
A/N: Thank you for reading. It's been a while since I had something for KNY. I came across a Tumblr post that says Amy's parents give off Weasley-parents feels. And I always remember the Weasleys with their Christmas sweaters. I love Molly and her magical clock, too.
I hope to return with more for this collection soon. I wanted to write something sweeter, it's just that S6 to S8 Shamy-wise is so challenging for me. As always, thank you so much for your time. Keep safe and healthy wherever you are. xoxo