The Star-Step Switch — Before the fire snapped its first loud pop, Quincy set one boot on the stool and whispered the rules of her new game: no floorboards creaking, no ribbon rustling, and one secret ornament delivered before anyone came in. Read the full story →
Before the fire snapped its first loud pop, Quincy set one boot on the stool and whispered the rules of her new game: no floorboards creaking, no ribbon rustling, and one secret ornament delivered before anyone came in. She had already tucked a cookie-shaped bell where her little brother could reach it, hung Grandma’s favorite reindeer low on the soft needles, and saved the highest star for last. Pine scent tickled her nose as the string lights made tiny glassy moons on the window.
The game grew faster. Quincy leaned, balanced, tapped the garland twice, and slid a striped candy cane onto an empty branch without shaking a single bulb. “Star-step!” she breathed. The room seemed to answer with a small tink from the mantel, where the stockings swung though no wind touched them. She froze, grinning at the quiet dare of it.
Then the star in her hand flashed—not bright like lightning, but warm like honey. Across each point, a tiny mark appeared: a bell for her brother, a reindeer for Grandma, a mitten for Dad, a bow for Mom, and one blank point waiting. Quincy laughed softly and pressed the star onto the top branch. The last point filled with a little boot, because the game had been keeping score of what she gave when nobody watched. If you spot that high star later, maybe it still remembers the first quiet star-step.
