When the Snow Turned Red

The Christmas Eve wind carried a faint chill, slipping through the cracks of the window. I curled up on the sofa, my fingertips tracing the phone screen as I waited for William Powell to come back. He said there's a work event tonight, so he might be late and told me not to wait for him to eat. The apples on the table still carried the fresh scent of fruit; I had picked them out specially at the supermarket this afternoon, bright red and shiny. Originally, the plan was that when he came back, we'd cut the apple and share it, then curl up on the sofa to watch an old movie. But now the clock was already pointing to eight o'clock, and his message was still stuck at that afternoon's "I'll contact you later." Bored out of my mind, I was scrolling through short videos when my fingers suddenly froze. On the screen popped up a live segment of a street interview; the news anchor was holding a microphone, facing a man and woman standing by the Christmas tree. The young woman wore an off-white down jacket, her long hair falling over her shoulders, a gentle smile on her face. The man beside her wore a dark gray coat, standing tall and upright; the profile of his face was so familiar it made my heart skip a beat. It was William Powell. I nearly held my breath, my fingertips trembling slightly as I brought the phone screen closer. The news anchor's voice carried a light, cheerful tone: "Young lady, spending Christmas Eve with the gentleman by your side—are you two a couple?" The young woman gently shook her head, a faint, almost imperceptible sadness flickering in her eyes before she lifted her smile again: "No, he's a friend of my dead husband." The news anchor froze for a moment, then quickly apologized, "Sorry, I didn't mean to offend." "It's okay." The young woman said softly, "My husband passed away three years ago, and for the past three Christmas Eves, William has been with my daughter and me." William Powell. Those two words stabbed into my heart like an ice-cold blade. I stared fixedly at the man on the screen; his gaze fell on the young woman with a tenderness and pity I had never seen before. The news anchor smoothly handed the microphone to William Powell. "Sir, could you tell us why you insist on spending every Christmas Eve with this young lady?" William Powell took the microphone, his voice low and steady, coming through the phone with a resolve that felt strange to me: "It's not easy for her to raise the child alone. My friend is dead, so I should take care of them more." The news anchor pressed on: "Is there any feeling beyond friendship and caretaking? After all, three years is enough time for many different emotions to grow." My fingers gripping the phone turned white at the knuckles, my nails almost digging into the flesh. I prayed desperately in my heart, hoping he would say no, hoping this was just a misunderstanding. William Powell was silent for a few seconds, then gently nodded, his voice carrying a hint of hoarseness: "Yes. I admit, I have feelings for Moira." With a crash, it felt like my whole world collapsed at that moment. Moira Franco. That name sounds familiar. William Powell once mentioned that a childhood friend of his died unexpectedly, leaving behind a wife and daughter, and that he occasionally helped them out. I always thought it was just ordinary support between friends. I never imagined that "helping out" meant he'd be there with them every Christmas Eve, nor that he could have such feelings for that woman. Christmas Eve. This holiday that should have belonged to the two of us, he was spending it with another woman, openly confessing his feelings for her in front of the whole internet. An uncontrollable wave of anger and hurt surged through me, and tears instantly blurred my vision.