You could feel the emotion pressed into the wood, the way the grain perfectly highlighted the folds of the angels’ robes or the rough texture of the donkey’s coat. But as the collection grew, a glaring, painful omission became impossible to ignore.

Out of all the intricate pieces I had gathered, the central figure was missing.

There was a beautifully crafted stable, sheep, oxen, angels, and wise men, but there was no baby in the manger. I used to cry looking at it. It felt like a direct reflection of my own life. A home prepared, a stage set, but an empty space in the center that could never be filled.

As the years ticked by, I started to view the collection not just as art, but as a ticking clock. Ten years. Fifteen years. Eighteen years. Every figure was a birthday Leo never had. That brings me to this morning. I woke up early, the chill of December creeping through the floorboards.

Mark was still asleep. I walked down the hallway, pulling my cardigan tighter around my shoulders, and unlocked the front door. I told myself not to expect anything. Nineteen years is a long time for a tradition to hold. I pulled the door open, the hinges whining slightly in the cold air.

There it was. Sitting directly in the center of the welcome mat was the manger. I dropped to my knees on the freezing porch, my breath catching in my throat. It was carved from a pale, beautiful white oak. And inside the manger, surrounded by delicate, thread-like strands of carved hay, was the child.

Tears immediately blurred my vision. I reached out with shaking hands and picked it up. But the moment my fingers gripped the wood, my confusion overpowered my sadness.

The piece was unnaturally heavy. The other figures were solid, but they were light—carved from standard wood blocks.

This felt like it had a core of lead. I carried it inside, placed it on the kitchen island, and turned on the overhead lights. I ran my hands over the smooth edges of the manger. I turned it upside down. There, covering the flat base, was a strip of yellowed masking tape.

It looked old, like it had been sitting in a workshop for years. I slipped a fingernail under the edge and carefully peeled it back. Etched directly into the wood underneath were three words: Press the knot. My heart started to pound aggressively against my ribs.

I turned the manger over and inspected the sides. On the back, right near the base, there was a small, dark knot in the oak. I pressed my thumb against it. It didn’t move. I pressed harder. There was a sharp, mechanical click, and the entire bottom of the manger slid outward on a hidden track.

The heavy piece of wood wasn’t solid. It was a perfectly hollowed-out box.