As the years passed, the nativity scene expanded, filling out the space above the brick fireplace. But there was always a glaring absence. The only piece missing from the very center of the display was the baby in the manger. Every year, I expected the manger to arrive.

Every year, it was another shepherd, another animal, or a star meant to be hung on the wall above them. The empty space in the middle of my mantel felt heavy. It felt like a reflection of my own life—a beautiful, carefully constructed scene built entirely around an empty center.

Then came this morning. I woke up early, the house freezing cold from a draft in the hallway. I pulled my thick robe tight around my shoulders, padded into the kitchen to start the coffee maker, and walked to the front door. I unlocked the deadbolt, the metal freezing against my fingers, and pulled the door open to look out at the frosty street.

There it was. Sitting on the frost-covered mat was the final piece. The manger, the child, the hay carved in impossibly delicate strands. My breath caught in my throat. I felt a sudden, sharp prick behind my eyes as I knelt down on the cold concrete.

It was breathtaking. The detail on the tiny sleeping face, the gentle slope of the wooden cradle—it was a masterpiece. I reached out and picked it up. Immediately, my brow furrowed. It was heavy. Unnaturally heavy. The other figures were light, carved from pieces of solid but buoyant wood.

This piece felt dense, almost weighted in the center. I turned it over in my hands, my thumbs tracing the bottom. There was a faded strip of masking tape stuck to the underside of the wood.

Written on the tape, in small, careful ink letters, were the words: Peel me.

My hands actually started to shake. For nineteen years, there had never been a single word communicated between me and the carver. No notes, no signatures, no initials carved into the bases of the figures. Just silence and wood. I hooked my fingernail under the edge of the masking tape and pulled.

It peeled away with a dry rasp. Underneath the tape, the bottom of the wooden manger had been hollowed out. Tucked tightly into the small, rectangular cavity was a piece of heavily folded notebook paper. The weight I had felt was a small brass hinge mortised into the wood, originally designed to keep the hidden compartment secure before the tape was added.

I carefully pried the folded paper out of the cavity. The edges were worn, as if it had been folded and unfolded a dozen times before it was finally hidden away. I stood up, stepped back inside the house, and shut the front door against the cold.

Leaning against the heavy wood of the door, I unfolded the paper. The handwriting was jagged, completely different from the careful block letters on the masking tape.