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Ainsley had been out shopping for christmas gifts for her mom, nothing big, just a nice scarf and a new pair of mittens. Her mother had never really been one for gifts and Ainsley wasn’t about to try and change that. Her mother had always favored practicality for as long as Ainsley could remember. Probably due to her upbringing, and having moved up into the middle class. Her only grandparents lived several states away in the more rural, less well to do part of the country, and she could see that in her mother. Their last visit had been dreadful, the rain had not let up for days and neither grandparent understood why their granddaughter would rather curl up on the bed in her room and read old history texts than wander out into the downpour to try and meet others her age at the nearby gas station that functioned as the community waterhole.

In fact it had been dismally cloudy and cold all day and the snow had taken on that sickly grey paler of not quite slush, not quite ice it always did as the dirt and grime of the streets and gutters filtered its way into the once pristine white of the frost and cold. The sun had started to set, and the chill was growing worse, prompting Ainsley to draw her jacket up more tight around her. She half debated making a detour to the nearest building that looked to be open and acception patrons, but at the same time she wanted to make it home before it got too late and her mother began to worry.

At first she wasn’t sure if the glimmer off the side of the building ahead was a simple trick of the light, or if the glass had just frosted completely over, but as she neared it, the realization dawned on her that the entire building was coated in a sheet of ice. This was odd on it’s own right, as the amount of water to coat a building that size would be substantial - not to mention the time it would take to freeze all that water. Still, stranger things had happened and she was about to toss it up to just odd happenstance when her eyes caught her reflection in the ice.

She sat alone in the small room where her father stored, built, and displayed his miniatures. Or, to be more accurate - her miniatures now. The man in the nice suit had said so, when he’d read out the long, boring sounding document to her and her mother as they’d sat in his downtown office. It had been a cold, sterile place, white, minimalist. Too clean. Too quiet. The man in the nice suit had been a bit chagrined when she’d come in with her mother, but she’d been quiet and out of the way the entire time, and the man had complimented her mother on having such a well behaved little girl. Mother’s eyes had been red, swollen, tired, and she had, had the grace to accept the compliment at face value. Of course Ainsley was well behaved, her father had been a loving, doting parent who had encouraged such things.

But her father was dead. Had been dead for almost a month now. The house felt colder than it ever had before. There was no soft humming from the kitchen in the early morning as her father set about making breakfast for his loving wife and daughter. The soft sound of his pen as he graded papers from his students, soft chuckles escaping now and then one one student made a particularly good point, or counter point, or pointed out a seeming error in some historical record. Things Ainsley was still too young to fully comprehend, but she still loved to listen to her father lecture about the history of europe and the rise and fall of kingdoms and empires and the war and turmoil they had endured to become the lands they were now. The laugh lines had creased his face, his beard had turned grey ages ago, but he had never lost his warmth and zest for life. Not even as the tumors grew within his chest and organs, not even as the chemo caused his hair to fall out in chunks, and he could barely eat from the nausea. He never stopped giving Ainsley every moment of his day that he could - his love, his care, his absolute devotion.

And then, one day, he didn’t wake up. The doctors said the tumors had stopped his heart in the night, he’d died in his sleep, painless, quiet, gentle. Fair, as deaths go. Her mother had been devastated - it was obvious to see - but her upbringing did not allow her to take a moment to grieve. Ainsley had become the focus. Ainsley still needed to be cared for - fed, clothed, loved. There were nights where the two had cuddled up in bed, and she’d listened to her mother fall apart once she’d feigned sleep. She wished there was a way to offer her comfort, but she knew that if she stirred the tears would dry up, and it would be all about her again. She did not want her mother to feel guilt for crying - not when she needed to cry. Father said it was always okay to cry - and not feel bad about it. She wanted to tell her mother that - but was too afraid that she wouldn’t listen.

So now she sat, in the room that had been her father’s. Meticulously laid out, bits, bins, glue, magnifiers, paint, tweezers, and other tools to put together the various and sundry plastic, resin, and metal miniatures together. The room was cold, empty, and a soul crushingly lonely place without her father’s warmth to fill it. All the miniatures were hers now - but what was the point if he wasn’t there to see her build it. What was the point if he wasn’t there to help her when she got stuck.

She stared at the model in front of her. It had been a joint project between the two of them. A 15mm M4 Sherman. He’d of course, done all the clipping and gluing, so that she didn’t get hurt. But he’d left the painting up to her. She had tried so, so hard, so hard to finish it before… before…

Her vision blurred through the tears, and she placed the brush down as she curled up into a tight ball in the chair. What was the point?! He was never going to see it now, she’d been too slow. She hadn’t been good enough and now he was never going to see their project done. Their first project - their last project. He’d trusted her to paint it and paint it well - he’d given her all the references, all the colors she needed. She’d been a good helper and had washed the brushes after every use. She’d made sure she didn’t spill paint on his workspace. She’d been good - but not good enough. She felt gutted, alone, cold, and useless. Nothing in the world mattered anymore. Her father was gone. He was gone and he’d never see how meticulous she’d been to follow his directions. How careful she’d been not to splotch paint over the details. How good she’d been at thinning down the paint and using light layers to bring the grey plastic up to the olive green that was so well known for the vehicle. It didn’t matter.

He was gone - and she was alone. Her mother wouldn’t understand. This had never been her thing. It had been a frivolity she’d allowed her husband because it had been his hobby long before they’d gotten married. It was a frivolity she allowed her daughter because it was something her husband would have wanted her to have. Had she had her way, they would have boxed up the miniatures the day after he was gone, and sold, or donated them to the nearest thrift shop. Not out of spite - but because they were frivolous, and her mother was not someone who tolerated such things lightly. But the man in the nice suit had said they were hers now, which meant that they could do no such thing, oh no, it was her husband’s final wish that Ainsley have these miniatures - that she be allowed to continue the hobby she and her father had shared.

But, he was gone, and she was alone in an empty room full of things that he would never see her finish. All she wanted to do now was curl up and cry…

Ainsley didn’t know how long she’d been standing there in front of the frozen image of herself, but the cold wind cut through her, and she quickly wiped away the tears lest they freeze. She wanted to curl up and cry. She felt hollow, alone, and gutted. She turned away from her icy reflection, and quickened her pace, wanting to make it home even faster now.

She was relieved to find her mother wasn’t home yet. She moved quickly, hiding the gift in her closet where she knew her mother rarely went unless she was doing a full clean of the house. She’d wrap it later that evening, but she just didn’t have the energy, warmth, or emotional stability right then to even think about it. She made her way into the kitchen, and made herself a mug of hot cocoa, and brought it up to her room. The lonely, gutted feeling refused to leave her, even as she sat there, sipping her cocoa slowly as she seriously contemplated just going to bed, skipping dinner just to sleep off this sudden depressive episode.

Instead she reached into a small drawer in her desk, pulling out a small tape player, and a single cassette tape marked Ainsley. She inserted the tape into the player, and it hissed to life, the pop and crackle of the audio filling the room.

“Ainsley, my darling little girl,” the voice of her father spoke from the cassette player, followed by a muffled cough. “Try as I might, I probably won’t be around much longer. You’re a bright young girl, and I know you know everything is not as well as I’ve made it out to be. But, forgive an old man his illusions. I don’t hide my illness from you out of fear that you will not understand, but out of fear that you will. I would rather my final months on this earth be filled with laughter, joy, and love, instead of fear, worry, and silently anticipatory dread. You were my greatest treasure and joy, Ainsley. Our miracle child. The doctors weren’t sure we’d ever have a child to love and cherish, but… God granted us you, beloved little Ainsley. My only regret… No, not only, I have far too many regrets to count - I am an old man after all - but my greatest regret, is that I won’t see you grow up into the wonderful, lovely woman I know you’ll become. That I will not see you off to your first dance, that I will not be there for you when you fall and get back up again, that I will not be there to help you when your heart gets broken for the first time, or the next. That I will not see you find love - as I and your mother did - and marry. That I will not see your children. Know that I love you Ainsley - that I will always, and have always, loved you. My blessed, darling girl.”

The tape played for a few moments longer, a faint hissing pop and crackle of dead air on the tape as she reached for the player, hitting the stop button and rewinding the tape. Her mother had given her the tape shortly after she’d found her in her father’s old study, wrapped up and asleep in his smoking jacket. She’d told her he’d meant for her to have it when she was a little older and would really understand - but she was sure Ainsley would understand now.

She had. She couldn’t fault her father for keeping the worst of his illness from her. He’d wanted his last days on earth to be kind, gentle, happy ones. He had wanted to die with dignity, with love filling his every waking hour. He had gotten his wish. Ainsley couldn’t be mad at the man, gone now for six years. She missed him terribly though - but the tape helped. It had preserved his voice. Kept him in this world, in her memory, just that much stronger.

The warmth of the cocoa, and her father’s words, began to suffuse through her body and bones. She wiped away more tears, then stood up, and pulled the presents from her closet, and went to go get the wrapping paper. She needed to wrap the presents before her mother got home so she could put them under the tree. Christmas was only two weeks away, and there were still cookies that needed to be baked...