Leather and Salt

Holly sinks into the living room’s worn carpet, the fire’s heat curling weakly against her side but never reaching the shadowy corners. Her head shifts, grey fur brushing the floor as her gaze settles on Sarah bathed in the cold glow of her phone. The mother’s fingers hover near her temple, pressing at the space where ache and tension gather. Holly sniffs the air—it smells of pine, but thin and bitter, a poor mimic of the sap-slicked trees she remembers. The candle burns faintly sweet, a breath of something artificial.

Max crouches on the floor, knees tucked tight, Lego scattered around him in chaotic piles. The steady snap of bricks locking together fills the silence, a rhythm deliberate and cautious. He’s building again—something sprawling but too fragile, doomed to collapse. Holly’s eyes half-close, watching the boy, his scent soft like crayons and soap. But there’s an edge there now, sharp and salty, though Max doesn’t seem to notice the weight he carries.

‘Max, put those away before dinner,’ Sarah says, her voice thin, worn at the edges like threadbare cloth. ‘I don’t want to be stepping on them all night.’

Max doesn’t answer, just twists the red brick in his fingers, the one that doesn’t quite fit. Holly shifts, resting her chin on her paws. The air thickens, heavy with something unspoken. It isn’t the boxes of decorations still stacked by the stairs or the bare, patient tree in the corner. It’s the silence, the way Sarah doesn’t hum anymore, the way Max’s Lego fortress feels like a wall he’s trying to build too high to climb over.

Then Erin’s boots scrape against the tiles, loud and careless. Her bag drops onto the couch with a soft thud. Her hair’s messy, cheeks flushed red with the cold, and her scent cuts through the room: wind and borrowed cologne, a sharpness Holly doesn’t know. Holly’s ears twitch back, catching Sarah’s shallow inhale, the shift in her posture before she speaks.

‘You’re late,’ Sarah says, her voice steady but tight, the words clipped.

‘Yeah, well, I’m here now,’ Erin replies, her tone brittle, ready to crack.

Sarah lowers her phone, her eyes finally meeting Erin’s. ‘You promised to help with dinner. You promised you’d try to be here more.’

‘And I’m here,’ Erin says, shrugging out of her coat. Her movements are sharp, cutting angles as she steps toward the hallway. ‘It’s fine.’

‘It’s not fine,’ Sarah snaps, her voice rising, something splintering beneath it. ‘You can’t just show up when you feel like it, Erin.’

Erin laughs, short and cold, her face flushed darker now. ‘I’m sorry if my whole life doesn’t revolve around…’ She gestures vaguely, her hand faltering midair before dropping to her side. She doesn’t finish, just turns on her heel, her boots striking the floor in defiant rhythm. The door to her room slams shut, the sound ricocheting through the house, leaving a hollow ringing in Hollys ears.

Holly lifts her head slightly, her ears flattening against the low thrum in the room, something she feels more than hears. Sarah’s hands curl into fists before she exhales, long and slow. She shakes her head, a motion sharp and final, like she’s trying to shake the tension loose from her body, but it clings, stubborn and unyielding.

*

Holly remembers the man—the deep rumble of his laugh that filled the house and softened the edges of Sarah’s sighs, the scowl that pulled Erin’s face tight until he teased it away. His hands, rough with work, would find the spot behind her ears, the one that sent her tail thumping, uncontrolled and happy. But it was his scent she loved most—leather and salt, grounding and solid, the way the earth smells after rain.

It changed near the end. The salt turned sharp, and there was something sour underneath, faint at first but growing stronger, more wrong. Holly didn’t have words for it, only the certainty that something in him was unravelling. She pressed her nose to his hand, nudging him, willing that old scent back. He’d smile, tired but still warm, his touch growing lighter each time, as though he were slipping away by degrees. She curled at his feet, refusing to leave even when Sarah tugged at her collar, coaxing her to move. She’d known before they did, had smelled it in the rasp of his breath, in the way the air around him grew thinner, stretched too tight.

And then, one day, his scent was gone altogether. It left behind only faded traces clinging to his chair, his boots by the door, the edges of the house where he used to linger. She searched for him in the days after, sniffing corners and doorways, finding nothing but empty air. Each time she came up short, the weight inside her grew heavier, her steps slower. She waited for his laugh to break the quiet, for his hand to rest on her head again, steady and sure.

But all that lingered was silence. And late at night, when the house was dark, Sarah’s quiet, broken sobs, muffled behind the door she always closed.

*

Later, when the house breathes its stillness, Holly pads softly into Max’s room. His small form curls beneath the blanket, his breathing uneven, hitching now and then like a half-finished thought. The room smells faintly of crayons and damp wool, the traces of salt lingering sharp in the air. Holly tilts her head, ears twitching at the small, muffled sounds that make her chest ache.

She climbs up slowly, her movements deliberate, careful not to jar him. The mattress dips under her weight, and she folds herself beside him. His hand finds her fur almost instinctively, tangling in it, the grip tight but not rough. His face presses into her side, the dampness of his tears soaking into her coat. She stays still, her warmth wrapping around him, steady and quiet as the trembling in his body begins to ease.

There’s no nudge or shift that would make this right, no better way to press closer and anchor him. But she stays. She stays because she’s there, because it’s enough to be beside him in the dark when everything else feels too far away.

*

Christmas Eve cuts the air in uneven slices. Sarah pulls the boxes of decorations from their hiding place, strings of lights tangling around her fingers. She wrestles them apart in sharp, frustrated bursts, like they’re to blame for the hollowness of the tree. Max hovers near her, his hands small and clumsy against the glass baubles she passes him. He places them wherever she points, movements cautious but distracted, as if he’s afraid the branches might snap under their weight.

Erin ghosts through the doorway, her phone lighting her face from below, sharp angles that catch her mother’s glance. Holly watches from her spot by the fireplace, her ears twitching at the uneven rhythm of Sarah’s breath, catching as she speaks.

‘Erin, for God’s sake, can you help?’ Sarah’s voice cracks on the last word, and for a moment it hangs there, suspended like the baubles Max barely manages to hook.

Erin doesn’t pause, her gaze steady on the glowing screen. ‘Maybe I don’t feel like pretending everything’s fine for one stupid tree,’ she says, her tone sharp enough to splinter.

‘Fine,’ Sarah answers, but it’s a brittle kind of word, one that doesn’t hold much weight. Her anger shifts, cooling into something quieter, something sharper still. ‘Go hide in your room, then. That’s all you seem to do these days.’

Erin freezes, her face flushing in uneven patches, and for a moment, Holly thinks she might snap back, might let her voice rise to meet her mother’s. But instead, she grabs her coat, yanks it tight, and storms out. The door slams behind her, a sound too loud for the stillness it leaves behind, ricocheting through the house and rattling loose a silence that doesn’t quite settle.

Max’s hands still, a bauble resting precariously on his fingertips. His lip trembles, the movement small but noticeable, but he doesn’t speak. Sarah closes her eyes, her breath shuddering out as her fingers press against the bridge of her nose. She mutters something low, the words soft and cracked, spilling into the air without a place to land.

Holly watches, her head low against her paws, her ears pinning back. The air feels taut, stretched too thin under the weight of everything unsaid, the tension humming faintly through her chest like the vibration of a string about to snap.

*

That night, Holly hears the front door creak open. It’s a soft, guilty sound. She lifts her head, her ears angling toward the noise, and there he is: small and slouched, the oversized coat swallowing his frame. He’s holding something in his hands, paper maybe, the edges curling from how tightly he grips it. His steps are quick but uneven, like he’s unsure where he’s going. Holly stands, slow and stiff, joints aching against the cold. She follows, her paws barely making a sound as she slips through the door behind him.

Outside, the air snaps at her nose, biting and bright. It smells of ice and old woodsmoke, faint and far away. The snow underfoot is thin, breaking into soft crunches beneath Max’s boots. Holly tracks him, her nose catching the faint thread of his scent—soap, salt, and the sharp tang of something else, something like worry. He walks steadily, the small clouds of his breath rising and falling, and she follows, the darkness swallowing them both in quiet.

The sounds of the night bleed in slowly. Wind, low and murmuring, rattles the icy branches of the park’s trees. Somewhere far off, a group of carollers carries their voices through the cold, the melody curling faintly into the air like smoke. Max stops at the swings, climbing onto the bench nearby, his knees tucked close as he clutches the paper tighter. Holly pads to his side, her paws pressing prints into the thin snow.

She sits close, her warmth folding into his, and leans her head against him. He doesn’t speak for a while. The paper crinkles faintly in his hands, a sound too soft for the space they’re in. Then he says it, so quietly it almost doesn’t reach her. ‘I just want us to be happy again.’ His voice trembles, the words too fragile to last long in the cold. ‘I just want Santa to fix it.’

Holly doesn’t know what he means. She only knows the way his small body shakes, how his breath hiccups against the stillness. She presses her nose to his cheek, warm and solid, a steadying weight. He sniffles, wipes at his face with the sleeve of his coat, and leans into her. 

*

Sarah finds them, breathless, her coat pulled tight over her pyjamas, the steam of her breath catching in the thin glow of the streetlamp. Her face is taut, sharp with fear-turned-anger, but when she folds Max into her arms, the tension drains. Her voice stumbles, soft, uneven. ‘What were you thinking?’ she whispers, holding him close. ‘You can’t just… you can’t just run off like that.’

Max doesn’t answer, his small body sagging into hers, limp as a bird drawn into shelter. Holly steps forward, her nose nudging against his coat, insistent. She presses him onward, the same way she used to nudge him toward bed when he’d fallen asleep in the armchair. Sarah rubs slow circles on Max’s back, her hand trembling slightly, the effort of calming herself as much as him. Holly glances back, paws scuffing against the snow, waiting for the boy to take a step. When he doesn’t, she nudges again, firm but steady, as if she can push the weight off his small shoulders just long enough for him to move.

‘Let’s go home,’ Sarah murmurs finally, her voice quieter now. ‘Come on, Holly.’

They walk together, Holly staying close, brushing against Max’s leg each time he slows. His steps falter more than once, his head bowing under some thought too heavy for his years, but each time, Holly is there, a warm, solid nudge to keep him going. The snow crunches underfoot, a rhythm almost soothing, and ahead of them, the faint glow of the house grows brighter, spilling its soft warmth into the cold night.

*

Christmas morning settles like the snow outside, soft and still. Erin drifts into the room, her eyes rimmed red, her body sluggish, like the weight of last night hasn’t quite let go. She murmurs something to Sarah, a string of words more gesture than speech. Sarah nods, pressing a cup of tea into her hands without a glance. Max crouches by the tree, the tiny pile of presents barely holding his attention, his fingers tugging at the paper in brief bursts of excitement that fizzle almost as soon as they flare. Holly stretches out beside him, her head low on her paws, her eyes half-lidded.

No one says much. The room fills with small sounds—the rustle of paper, the quiet click of Sarah’s spoon in her mug. Holly watches Erin linger by her mother’s side, unsure whether to sit or move.

Max leans into Sarah as if drawn by some instinctive pull, his small frame pressing into her as she rubs his shoulder absently. It’s not a moment of sweeping relief, not some grand mending of all that’s broken, but it’s enough—a fragile thread holding the room together.

Holly’s eyes close, the warmth of the fire seeping into her fur, pulling her into the edge of sleep. She doesn’t listen to the words they exchange, doesn’t need to. What she feels is enough—the faint hum of connection, tentative and thin, weaving back into the spaces where it had frayed. For now, it’s all that matters.