1 January 2017 Winnipeg, Canada

It is a few days past Christmas and another ten years past miracles — and yet, the Vorobyevs’ Christmas miracle was present, nevertheless. Here, on the rickety deck of the small house, stood the father beneath the late-night moon. Ten long, difficult years of being wrongly kept away from his children were steeled into the lines on his face, the bags under his eyes, and the greys in his hair. His welcome back to society was no kinder. The harsh, cold wind of this still-foreign land spits in his still-foreign face, and the snow-sheeted streets bite into his ankles with each drag of his foot.

As hope of his freedom eroded over the years, the father’s chest caged the bird of his heart. There, it secretly sang for the warmth it longed for. But today, it flutters with nervous love for the ones who wait behind the door. He knocks. The bird hums against his chest.

The father sees the shutters bend for a peek out the window. Then the door flings open, and his eldest child throws themselves onto their father. With shrill glee, they call out to their siblings. The little sister scampers out of their shared bedroom into the dark of night. The older brother is more mindful, more doubtful. He turns on the light to chase away what ghost may be standing at the door. But still, his father remains. Ten years of longing bubbles as tears in his eyes and excitement on his lips.

The father finally calls out to his children, and it is birdsong to their ears.

Excitement buzzes the family awake through the night. The family flocks into the children’s nest, and they chitter-chatter in the starry glow of night-lights and lamps. Questions spill out with awed confusion, and embraces make up for lost time. But eventually, the lull of sleep drifts the conversations away, like a whisper blowing a flame into smoke. The eldest and the brother sink into sleep. The father, exhausted by the storm of emotions of the day, claims the floor between the two beds as his own. But the little sister, her hair bright and orange like the sun, perches awake on her upper bunk above the eldest. Eyes wide in the dark, she lowers her soft blanket and pillow-clouds to the ground, then inches towards her father.

He smiles and welcomes her into his embrace. How can one say no to such warmth in this cold, winter night? With both their heads in the pillow-clouds, the little sister curls up against her father, trying to wrap her small sky-blue blanket over the both of them. Her father is far too tall for the blanket and his legs stick out the bottom, but his heart is warmer than ever with the little ball of fire at his chest. 

The little sister sighs with content, only a few snuggles away from sleep — but she looks up to her father for one final peep:

"Daa, you're gonna stay with us for good, right?"

The father smiles.

"Yes, my little sparrow. For as long as I can."

The father turns off the lights. He moves the blanket off him and fully wraps his daughter in its sky-blue, wishing her flame may never die. She leans on him and lets sleep take her far, far away from what she did not hear, for the second of silence before his response told her more than what his scarred lips ever could.