The Fourth Name Tag — Behind the tall candle, Orin held a blank wooden tag between his fingers. Sam, Mia, and Leo had hung their stockings before supper, each loop clicking softly on its hook. Read the full story →
Behind the tall candle, Orin held a blank wooden tag between his fingers. Sam, Mia, and Leo had hung their stockings before supper, each loop clicking softly on its hook. Orin had sanded the little tag smooth for three evenings, breathing in cedar dust, waiting for the right place to tie it.
The room settled into pine smell and fire hush. Orin watched the flames move over the bricks and the round ornaments tucked in the garland. The blank tag seemed too plain beside stitched stars, snowflakes, and bright dots, so he waited longer, turning it over and over until the edges warmed in his palm.
Then the candle flames leaned, and the tag caught the light. Faint lines appeared in the wood: four tiny marks his great-grandpa had carved years ago, one for every winter the family saved a place for someone new. “It already has a name,” Orin whispered.
He tied it to the empty bit of garland between the stockings, where it swung like a small promise. If you study the mantel carefully, you might find the patient spot where a blank wooden tag could glow behind the tall candle.