Lucy Bell pressed the tip of her red crayon into the paper until it snapped.
A bright scarlet line shot across the Christmas tree she had been drawing for Grandma Rose, right through the star on top and down into the snow. Lucy stared at the ruined card. Outside her bedroom window, snow whispered against the glass, and somewhere downstairs a pan clattered in the kitchen. The house smelled of cinnamon, pine needles, and the orange peels her father always left beside the sink.
“Perfect,” Lucy muttered.