The Unfinished Wreath

I found the box in early December, wedged between old quilts in the attic of my apartment. The label, in my grandmother’s precise hand, read: ‘Kerst, 2009.’ Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a half-finished wreath of braided straw and red ribbon, and a small, silver bell. It was the last thing she ever made, interrupted by her fall on the icy steps that winter. I had not been allowed at her funeral, and the grief had curdled into a numb anger. But holding that wreath, feeling the rough straw and the smooth ribbon she had touched, I felt a crack in that numbness.

That evening, as I wrapped a gift for my boyfriend, a heavy, sweet scent of lingonberries and pine filled the room. It was her scent, the one that clung to her wool cardigan. I looked around, but I was alone, save for my cat, Astrid, who sat in the corner, her green eyes fixed on a point just over my shoulder. She didn’t hiss or growl; she simply stared, her tail twitching slowly. The sensation of being watched returned, but it was warm, like a hand resting on the small of my back. I continued wrapping, but I noticed the bell on the wreath gave a single, quiet ring.

The next night, I tried to settle Astrid for sleep. She was a fierce creature, a beast of claws and attitude, but at night she needed to be cradled, draped over my shoulder like a stole, facing the empty wall. I swayed, humming a lullaby my grandmother used to sing. Astrid let out a pitiful meow, a sound I had never heard her make. I set her down, fearing I’d hurt her. Instead of running, she padded to the corner of the room and sat, staring at the same spot, her eyes wide. Then she began to purr, a low, rumbling vibration that seemed to sync with the faint ticking of the clock. And then, I heard it—a soft, rhythmic breathing, coming from the empty air.

The next day, I dragged the box into the living room and decided to finish the wreath. I tied the ribbon, and as I did, the room grew warm. The scent of coffee and cardamom buns, her Christmas staple, filled the air. A shadow flickered in my periphery, a small, bent figure moving by the window. I turned, and there was nothing. But on the windowsill, a single, faded photograph had fallen face down. I picked it up. It was a picture of my grandmother and me, taken at a summer fair, both of us laughing at a goat that had stolen my hat. I had forgotten that photo existed.

Christmas morning, I woke to find the wreath completed on the coffee table, but I had not finished it. The straw was neatly braided, the ribbon tied into a perfect bow. The bell was polished to a gleam. My boyfriend, still half asleep, mumbled, ‘Did you finish it?’ I shook my head, a coldness settling in my gut. Astrid, who had been a silent sentinel for days, jumped onto the table and gently batted the bell. It chimed, a pure, clear note.

I hung the wreath on my door. As I stepped back, I felt a hand on my shoulder, light as a ghost. Tears pricked my eyes, not of sadness, but of a strange, unspent joy. I whispered, ‘Tack, Mormor.’ The wreath swayed, as if in a breeze, and the bell rang once more. I wasn’t being watched anymore; I was being welcomed. And for the first time in six years, I felt the sting of a Christmas kiss on my cheek, soft and gone, like a memory that had never faded.