Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, Frank stared out of the window at the clouds beneath the plane. The aircraft started to shake in turbulence, but he was too lost in thoughts to notice the clicking of the fastening belts or to do his.

It was December 23rd and he was going home for Christmas vacation. It was going to be a short visit, just three days, for he didn't want to stay in Bayport for more than necessary.

As the plane approached New York, the knot in his stomach grew tighter. This was going to be a sad homecoming, he knew. Staying a bathroom away from Joe's room, celebrating the first Christmas without him, meeting their friends on his own. He'd have to face everything he had run away from four months ago.

But there was another thing that nagged at him worst of all.

The words of that crazy woman kept bothering him. He was rational enough to know that she was a good psychologist and could read people's emotions off their faces – and his face clearly showed the loss he couldn't overcome. His past experience of solving crimes taught him to be careful around "psychic" people. But she mentioned some things she couldn't read off his face. Like - how could she almost say Iola's rare name correctly? Pure luck and coincidence?

He knew the case of Joe's accident by heart, he studied every nook and cranny of it. There was not a single possibility he or his father could have missed something.

Or could they?

Frank rubbed his face in exasperation. He reached into his pocket and took out the card which wished him a miraculous Christmas. It would be stupid to believe it had come out of nowhere in that department to give him a hint. There was nothing unusual about "miraculous" wishing, since Christmas was all about hoping for miracles.

If he dared to cross the thin line between the reality and hopeless hopes, he'd go crazy, he knew. It was just Christmas that was making him too emotional.

Do you remember what you wish for every Christmas

Do you say a prayer and send it on a star

Or maybe I'm just being over-sentimental

But now it's Christmas and I miss us most of all

You know I never really took the time to thank you

I was always thinking you were here to stay

Is it something in the air that gets me crazy

'Cause now it's Christmas and I miss us just the same…*

As the plane touched the landing runway, he wished it were his flight back to London already.

On his way out of the airport, Frank instinctively looked right and jumped back in surprise at a loud beep of a car that drove past him from the left. He cursed instincts.

Once in Bayport, Frank watched the familiar places from inside a taxi – the playground where he and Joe had met most of their friends, the road to school, the small shops they used to go to. Turning away from the taxi window, he once again remembered why he'd left the town. Bayport was all about Joe. Even when Joe was no longer around.

The car stopped in front of the beautiful house on Elm Street. Frank's heart was drumming in his chest as he approached the front door. He pressed the doorbell and let out a heavy sigh. He was so not looking forward to this.

Fenton Hardy opened the door and for a few moments the two stared at each other. He looked as if he'd aged even more years since Frank had seen him last, with more grey hair and deeper wrinkles around his eyes. Then the elder Hardy's face broke into a grin and he wordlessly put his arms around his child.

"Hi," Fenton whispered.

"Hi," Frank smiled in reply and let go of his father.

"How was the flight?"

"Alright. Turbulent somewhat, but alright," Frank said, closing the door.

"Your accent!" Fenton smiled in amusement. "You sure you were born American?"

"Dunno, ask my parents," Frank laughed softly.

"Oh my God, Frank!" petite Laura Hardy rushed from the kitchen to give her son a fierce hug, her face barely reaching his neck. She held him for a few seconds, before breaking the embrace, "You've lost weight, do you eat anything at all?"

"Ah Mom, you've always thought me thin. I'm the same old myself."

"Does he sound English to you too?" Laura turned to her husband. At his nod, she smiled at her son, "My gentleman. Dinner will be ready in half an hour, you up for it?"

"Yeah, it's… just 11 PM for me now, so I'm fine," he answered, checking with his watch that still showed Greenwich time. "I'll take a shower and be right down."

"Great. We're dying to hear how things are for you over there," Laura stood on her toes to give him a kiss on a cheek. At his another 'ah, Mom', she patted his upper arm, "It's just good to see you."

Frank thought she was close to tears.

He went upstairs and stopped in the corridor to look at the door to Joe's room, pain squeezing his heart. His mother has kept it exactly the way Joe had left it on that Friday – untidy and with things thrown around it. He used to scowl at his brother when he'd stumble over something. Now he'd be glad to help him make a worse mess out of his living space.

His own room was quiet and neat, as always. He put his small travelling bag on a chair and came to sit on the bed, looking around. He'd lived in this room for the most of his life, but it felt like it belonged to someone else now.

He laid back and tried to take in the surroundings. Apart from soft noises from the downstairs, the house was quiet. He remembered that it was the deafening silence that used to send chills down his spine in July. The house was never silent without Joe. Slamming doors, blaring music, loud phone conversations – Joe was never confidential about his activities.

Frank turned his head to the right and looked at the photo of himself and Joe that stood on his bedside table. A little piece of Joe was there, smiling at him from some long-forgotten party.

Before emotions could take the best of him, he quickly stood up from the bed to go the bathroom.

The dinner went better than Frank had feared, as they managed to keep the conversation light and easy. Frank found it easy to tell his family about life in England and they were genuinely interested. Fenton visited the country a lot in his line of work, but being a tourist and a resident brought different experiences. Laura was happy to know that Frank was doing well at the University – not that she expected anything else. Only his aunt Gertrude was unusually quiet.

Any mentions of Joe were carefully avoided. Frank found it both relaxing and sad. It was as if they pretended he had never existed and it was not fair to Joe's memory. Remembering his existence, though, was still too painful, and Frank wondered if they would ever get over his absence.

* "It's only Christmas", Ronan Keating from "Winter Songs" album.