The workshop was silent in the aftermath of my latest adventure. I was sitting there silently, cleaning my blast box, this world's name for guns. In the agonizing year since I'd come to the Spear Peaks, I'd hunted orcs, fought insects the size of a car, and even slain a dragon.

With the contracts I'd taken on to earn money, I was able to spend my down time comfortably. The workshop was outfitted with all the tools I needed, a comfortable bed, and even enough food to be content as could be. Yet it was all so hollow. So...empty.

A sip of coffee...or, at least that's what I told myself it was...that offered a small taste of the home I missed dearly.

"Three hundred twenty seven..." I breathed between sips. Counting the days anchored me. It helped me cling to my memories in a world that would drown them in power, magic, and possibility. So much so that it threatened to render me oblivious to the obvious.

Like the picture frame sitting on the mantle of the fireplace. The golden frame on a metal tripod that I'd stared at for so many years, that had scrabble letters that spelled "daddy" and "daughter" in the top left corner, that had a photo of a beautiful one-year-old girl feeding her dad a cracker at some fast food restaurant that she adored.

Nearly a year of being dead inside, numb to as many emotions that I could bury as possible, and my favorite picture of my old life found its way into a world where neither featured face existed. I stood slowly, leaving my glass behind at my chair as I stumbled forward. A tear ran its way down my cheek as I stared at the nostalgic frame and ran my fingers along the glass.

At its base was a piece of paper, college ruled. Perforated. Dark blue ink between the lines in a right slant. Gods, it was her handwriting. My breath trembled as I read.

"Dad,

Not a day goes by that I don't think of you, that I don't look at that picture of us in Skyline. It gets harder and harder to remember the time we spent together. A few head injuries from soccer sure didn't help.

All the practice you and Rebecca gave me paid off, though. I have a full ride for soccer! Mom's pissed because it's overseas, but she can't complain because the opportunity is too good to pass up on.

Another month and I'll be 18. I-"

Gods...eighteen? It hadn't even been a year that I was gone. She shouldn't be more than eight!

A sob escaped me as I clung to that page like a lifeline, desperately reading about her budding love life, the accident that killed me, and how my son was doing. It was amazing how concisely she could write with such rich emotion. An aching sense of pride flooded over me.

After a deep breath, I looked at the bottom of the page's backside. "From Santa" was written neatly in the corner, small enough that the letter was untarnished otherwise. I cursed beneath my breath as I continued to gently trace a touch over this odd gift.

"Merry Christmas, Elise..."