A/N: A little nod here to my piano teacher, Sister Barbara Galvin, one of the sweetest people I was ever lucky enough to know.

BEFORE

In these frozen and silent nights

Sometimes in a dream

You appear

Outside under the purple sky

Diamonds in the snow

Sparkle

Our hearts were singing

It felt like Christmastime

"2000 Miles"

The Pretenders

December 25, 1938

Worcester, Massachusetts

A new world. The words resounded inside Chuck's head, remembered from the sermon heard during last night's Christmas Eve mass. The priest, of course, had meant the earth, transformed, once the savior had been born. Christmas had always been complete with the nativity set his parents had placed on the hearth mantle. Overly pensive this year, Chuck had started to think about more than just the words and the pictures of the season. The people living at the time of the first Christmas…had anyone understood the meaning of that day as it happened, besides three wise men traveling with gifts? Did they even understand? Who did they think they were meeting? What kind of king? Perhaps only Mary understood, comprehended the significance of her little manger family.

Then, the world had changed, transformed…and no one had noticed. More than thirty years would pass before anyone took note, as he recalled from his bible class. How could anyone comprehend a change so profound…that changed everything, and yet, nothing tangible appeared altered at all. It was so…because the change had to be felt in the human heart.

Chuck found the parallels with his own life. All of the inanimate things, tangible objects, in his life were exactly as they had always been. But everything had changed…another unfathomable transformation. The world of the happy was a different world than the world of the unhappy.

He was thinking this as he heard the doorbell, his heart nearly skipping a beat as he knew who was at the door, waiting for him. This change, too, had been in his heart. The joy of Christmas morning from the past was gone, departed…but his heart had changed. Instead of the barely contained excitement coursing through him in the first rays of morning sun, it was delayed, postponed until now, late morning…but the feeling was the same.

The joy of togetherness, his makeshift togetherness. Happiness cobbled together from mismatched pieces that still somehow fit to create the whole. The joy of discovering that though he had been lost, he had also been found. Orphaned in the fall… but a part of a family at Christmastime.

Earlier, Casey and Gertrude had called him downstairs and he had opened his presents from them, mostly things he needed–new clothing to replace things he had outgrown, or new winter gear to replace things that had worn out. He had one gift that was for fun–a baseball mitt and a new baseball. He excitedly watched as both of them opened the gifts he had bought for them, pleased that his choices had delighted them. The morning was nice…an oversimplified word, but the most predominant in his thoughts, as nice as he could have had, considering the absences that he felt like holes in his heart. It wasn't the same, could never be the same, but despite that, it was still nice.

The doorbell meant Sarah was here. His wish, tossed skyward under the canopy of shooting stars, half believed, had come true. Magic had begun breathing inside him again.

His shoes slid on the tile floor as he rushed to the foyer, making it there just as Casey opened the door. Past Casey, Chuck could see a crowd on the doorstep. Jack Burton, dressed in a long black wool overcoat, stood at the door, a tall redheaded woman beside him, her arm tucked through Jack's. Her face was dramatically made up and her hair reminded him of pictures he had seen of movie stars. The woman held the hand of a young girl, the child's hair just as red, but her eyes so pale blue for a moment Chuck believed her eyes were lavender. Sarah, in her pink woolen peacoat, had already released her father's hand and was running before the door was open all the way. The adults conversed, quiet murmurs in which Chuck couldn't discern individual words. He had been curious about the other child, but the moment Sarah rushed toward him, he forgot everything except her nearness to him.

Before Chuck could speak, Sarah threw her arms around him, squeezing his waist. Her strength surprised him, the easy familiarity comforting. "Merry Christmas," she whispered before she released him.

"Merry Christmas," he echoed, flashing her a beaming smile. She reached for his hand, but before she started to pull him away, she turned to the door. With her free hand she waved. "Bye, Daddy. Bye, Roxanne. Bye, Carina." She didn't wait for a reply from anyone, instead tugging Chuck's hand and pulling him after her.

Before they moved into the hallway, Chuck watched Casey take a paper shopping bag from the woman, then shut the door. Casey turned, giving a brief, affirmational nod, holding out the bag for Chuck. Chuck grasped the handles carefully as he took the bag from Casey.

As they walked down the hallway, still hand in hand, Chuck asked Sarah, "Who was with your dad?" He tried to sound neutral, merely curious. Inside, he was more than curious, a strange set of emotions tumbling around inside him. The woman, Roxanne, he thought, as he remembered how Sarah had said farewell, seemed overly friendly with Mr. Burton. The other child, Carina, looked to be about Sarah's age. Was she related to Sarah? Friends with Sarah? And worse, why was she staying with Sarah's father, while he was dropping off his daughter on Christmas Day at someone else's house? It didn't seem right.

"Roxanne is my dad's…friend," she said, stretching out the last word, like she was repeating the word and its intonation from someone else. "She's Carina's mommy. Carina's the same age as me, in first grade."

"Is she your friend?" Chuck asked, hopeful and yet inexplicably jealous at the same time.

"I don't know. Sort of?" Why that was a question, he had no idea. "My daddy and her mommy think we are. They tell us to play together when they visit. Carina breaks my stuff, thinks reading is boring, and sometimes she says I act like a baby." Sarah said it matter-of-factly, but Chuck heard the disdain in her voice.

"That doesn't sound like a friend to me," Chuck explained with a frown.

Sarah stopped walking, turning back to look at him. "She doesn't have a daddy. Her mommy doesn't pay a lot of attention to her. I think she likes being with me better than she likes being alone."

His dismay tempered, a sudden sympathy for the other girl emerged instead of the same disdain at what Sarah had described.

"What about your friends?" Sarah asked innocently.

"There are a few boys I talk to at school. We play at recess…or sometimes we play baseball or whatever," Chuck described. He was friendly with all of them, but not close enough to anyone to be what he would call his friend. Not with that word. Even before tragedy had befallen him, he had been personable but quiet, his intelligence and vocabulary setting him apart from most of his peers. His height also didn't help him to fit in.

There was no one he had ever been close to outside of his family. Not until Sarah.

Not even two months had gone by since he had first met her, and he could not imagine his world without her in it. He had seen her whenever possible on weekends. They typically met at Chuck's house, for Jack was often not home or working, and Gertrude's offer for the children to play together also had an ulterior motive–an offer to watch over and care for Sarah. A few weeks ago, Chuck had overheard Gertrude talking to Casey, wondering if only the housekeeper, Mrs. Winterbottom, who came three times a week, took care of Sarah. Was she home alone in the house at six years old while Jack was working?

It made Chuck feel better knowing Sarah benefitted from some of Gertrude's dedicated caretaking. Seeing Sarah that frequently had brought him closer to happiness again than he ever imagined he could be. It wasn't the same; he could not recapture the featherlight happiness of an unsuspecting, unbroken heart. His new happiness was heavier, water-logged, but earned, forged from the shattered pieces remaining; another aspect of him, transformed.

He was still lost in thought when he realized Sarah had taken him all the way to his Christmas tree, positioned in the window of their formal living room. The adorned tree sparkled, the large colored light bulbs blinking on and off, reflected in the silver garland and tinsel that drooped from every branch. The fresh scent of pine filled the air as they approached. Beneath the tree most of the gifts laid open, perched inside their lidless boxes, as if on display. Only one wrapped present sat under the lowest branch, a small square box wrapped in gold paper with a gold bow.

He released her hand and reached down for the wrapped gift. She took off her coat and tossed it onto the nearby sofa as he moved. Her face was animated, her blue eyes shining as she examined the box he held in his hand. "This is from me," he said softly, holding it out for her.

She dropped down and sat on the floor in front of him, folding her legs beneath her, rumpling the red velvet skirt of her dress. She held it, just examining it, longer than he expected. She was excited, but she was waiting. No, savoring it, he realized.

She was only six, he had to remind himself, mostly because he thought of her as older. Her independence and intelligence were advanced for her age. At six, Christmas had been the most exciting and magical day of the year. What had her morning been like? What had her father done in her house to celebrate? The potential answers made him sad, sorry for her, so much so that, though he wanted to ask her, he didn't. He was certain her answers would hurt her to express, dampen her high spirits.

She opened his gift more carefully than he had ever seen anyone do. Deliberately, she pulled the loose ends of the bow, unraveling the tie. Next, she pulled at the crease in the stiff paper, moving delicately with great attention to not ripping the paper haphazardly. She peeled the paper down, revealing the white paperboard box. With a double-handed grip, she lifted the lid and peered inside.

Chuck had been holding his breath the entire time, ready to jump out of his skin with anticipation. He breathed again when he saw her smile as she peeked into the box and folded back the tissue paper. She giggled and her eyes twinkled. He watched her pick up the plush toy and gush. Hugging it against her, she said, "Oh, he's so cute! He looks just like the owl we saw in the woods!"

He smiled so widely he felt the muscles in his cheeks protest, unaccustomed to such demands.

"Thank you, Chuck," she said, leaning forward and kissing him innocently on the cheek. It was the sweetest thing he had ever known. He breathed in the scent of her again, lavender and baby powder, sure he was floating a few inches off the ground.

Still hugging the owl to her chest, she told him, "Your present is in the bag."

The thrill of expectation filled him as he reached into the paper bag. He thought about not only what it could be, but how she had gotten it, how she had known what to choose for him. He held it in his hand, a flat box covered with shiny green paper. He showed more vigor and enthusiasm, ripping the paper at a diagonal across the top of the box. He flipped the lid open and his jaw dropped. Inside the box were five brand new comic books.

"You said you liked Superman…and you were behind with issues. None of those were on your shelf in your room," she explained.

He was momentarily overwhelmed…something so simple, yet so touching. Something his sister would have done for him if she were still alive. Gingerly, he lifted the thin stack, the pages crisp beneath his fingers.

"We can read them like we did the other ones…" she added, leaning closer to him, shifting so she could gaze up into his face to gauge his reaction. He gave her a trembling smile, nodding in response.

"What…what are you going to name your owl?" Chuck asked, whispering over the lump in his throat, changing the subject.

She looked down at her toy. "How about Hoot?" she asked. Once she said the name, she mimicked the sound they had heard on that snowy day in the woods.

"Perfect," he said, smiling again, her bubbliness contagious. He wanted to ask her, so he offered his own information first. "Gertrude took me shopping at Denholm's. How did you go shopping?"

"Mrs. Winterbottom goes shopping for us downtown on Friday mornings. I took the money out of my piggy bank and asked her to buy as many of the newer ones that she could with what I had," she told him.

"Thank you, Sarah," he gushed. "This is the best gift."

"Hoot is mine," she replied, an odd lilt to her voice that Chuck didn't miss. It made him wonder. What other gifts had she gotten? He feared what the answer to his silent question was. Already he knew there was no Christmas tree in her house, just a plant stand with five poinsettia plants arranged in a short triangle. Wistful but sad, Sarah had explained that for now the second year in a row, without her mother, Jack no longer decorated his home for the holiday.

"Are you kids ready to go?" Casey called as he walked into the room. He scanned the scene, grinning at the exchanged gifts on display. He clapped his hands together, indicating they start moving, then left the room.

"Where are we going?" Sarah asked Chuck.

"To the orphanage," Chuck told her. "We always used to go. Not ever on Christmas Day before, but this year, Casey and Gertrude decided it would be better to get out of the house. Try something different."

Sarah looked curious, but confused. "What's at the orphanage?" she asked.

"Kids who live there with the nuns because they don't have parents," Chuck told her.

"Did you ever have to live there?" Sarah asked, astutely remembering when she had first met him he had explained himself using that title.

"No," Chuck answered, his heart buoyant as he felt he finally understood what he was about to say. "I was lucky."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chuck was used to being in the orphanage, St. Ann's. His guardians never talked about it, not really ever talking about anything like that, but both Casey and Gertrude had grown up at St. Ann's, their entire childhoods spent waiting for an adoption that never came. Wards of the state at 18, or so Casey had always said, he and Gertrude had to go out into the world alone and fend for themselves once they weren't legally children anymore. Getting married had been the logical thing to do, ensuring the partnership they had fostered as they grew up parentless stayed for all time. Hearing them talk, Chuck knew neither Casey nor Gertrude harbored any ill will towards the orphanage, rather, they considered themselves lucky to have been in a relatively stable and nurturing environment. There were many others the two of them knew who had not been so lucky.

Whenever they had extra money or goods to be donated, they were given to the children at St. Ann's. Almost everything that Ellie had ever owned–her clothes, toys, books, and even some furniture, had been given to the orphans. On holidays, they both volunteered in any way they could. At Christmas, Casey dressed as Santa Claus and passed out gifts to the children. Chuck's parents had known of this tradition, and had always contributed. This was the first time Chuck had accompanied them, but the Caseys were his family now, and it only felt right that he should be with them. He felt better, closer to alright, when he was with them, when he allowed himself to call them that inside his head and heart.

Sarah here with him made him convinced he was alright…or that he could be, he would be again. Her temperate smile forbade the freezing winter from weighing on him. On this, one of the darkest of winter days, the November he carried around inside himself was gone, thawing ground giving way to crocuses and daffodils…all the rusty dead leaves cleared away.

Always curious, almost never afraid, Sarah walked beside him, absorbing her surroundings as they moved. Casey and Gertrude were behind them. An elderly nun, dressed in full habit, stepped out into the corridor, seeming to glide on the air like an angel, the hem of her skirt skimming along the floor. "Sister Mary Barbara," Gertrude called in greeting. The nun's stern face relaxed into a warm smile.

"Hello, children," she said. It was odd to Chuck to hear her refer to Casey and Gertrude as that, but it made sense to him, nonetheless. "And you brought your charge," she added, shifting her gaze and her smile down to Chuck.

Chuck felt Casey's hand on his shoulder as he approached from behind. "This is Charles, but he goes by Chuck," Casey told her. "This is Sarah, his friend," Casey added as Chuck saw Casey's other hand rest on top of Sarah's head.

"Well, Merry Christmas, Chuck and Sarah," Sister Mary Barbara greeted them, her kind smile widening. "We have a party to start," she added with a wink.

Chuck had been to Christmas parties before–with his parents at fancy restaurants or in other people's houses, but those hadn't really been anything he would have considered fun. Mostly boring adult conversations to be endured in order to eat a fancy dessert. The party Sister was speaking of was a children's party, and it was more fun than Chuck could remember having in a long time.

Casey dressed as Santa was funny, so much so that Chuck was struggling to hold in his giggles every time he saw the man, his false beard and eyebrows crooked and his bright red costume pants too baggy, for Casey was not a plump, jolly elf, as Santa had always been described. It felt so good to laugh, Chuck really didn't want to hold it in. Even better, when he laughed, Sarah laughed, the music of her laughter a siren song.

Casey handed out wrapped gifts from a large red velvet sack and everyone watched as the gifts were opened. There was Christmas music and singing, red fruit punch and shortbread cookies. The adults, mostly nuns, congregated on one side of the main hall, and the children on the other.

Normally shy and sometimes aloof, Chuck this time had no difficulty interacting with the other children. He was older and taller than the majority of children there, but they all played games and built puzzles and read books together, sharing new toys to be cherished. Recycled joy. Sarah stayed close to him, never more than a step away from him, but she talked to the other girls her age. The time flew, dusk falling and turning to night almost without anyone noticing. When Casey gave the word that it was time to go home, Chuck was disappointed. But they said goodbye to the other children and walked to the door to wait for Casey and Gertrude.

Out of nowhere, as they stood alone, Sarah told him, whispering conspiratorially, "My wish came true. You know, after the shooting stars."

He wanted to ask her what it had been, but inside, he was sure he already knew. Maybe not word for word, or even specifically, but he knew. "Mine did, too," he said, smiling at her.

Despite the joy in the moment, Chuck saw the blue in her eyes darken like a stormy sky. Why, he wasn't sure, until she spoke again. "You were so sad…because you were an orphan. But these kids aren't sad, not really."

Happy was a relative term, he knew, but agreed with her about his lack of sadness. "I was…but I'm not anymore," Chuck told her, the old emptiness inside him now full as he realized that even without his parents, he was not an orphan. He had a family–just a different kind of family than he had ever expected he would have. He could love them all, the ones no longer with him, and the ones that were.

"Do you think…you could have parents…or a parent…and still be an orphan?" she asked, pausing between words, like she was gathering her courage to ask the question.

His insides seemed to jangle, clatter, as he heard her words. He felt wounded, injured, when he thought of her: why would she ask such a thing, and mean it, when she was so young? Her once messy braids, her missing mittens, her decoration-less house, and her father's Christmas Day dismissal of her reinforced Chuck's sentiment. He reached for her hand protectively, squeezing it tight.

"Maybe," he answered. "But you can still have a family…even if you are an orphan," he reassured her, his own life as proof.

He felt her leaning against him, her cheek resting against the sleeve of his coat. The little owl was tucked securely under her other arm.

The discordant jangle inside him ceased as he thought of her, how she would be later tonight, asleep under her pink blanket, Bunny and her new owl both pressed close to her heart.