No drama. No protest. Just quietly boxed and returned to the garage, leaving behind a faint trace of pine and memory. The living room feels bigger without it. Wick approves.

He inspected the cleared corner carefully, then settled there anyway—guarding the absence like it was his job.

Tigra keeps checking the spot, ears forward, clearly expecting the tree to reappear. Quigley stared at it for a long moment, then sighed and flopped down, accepting reality with impressive maturity.

The vacuum cord has been officially outmaneuvered.

It now lives wrapped, clipped, and tucked behind a closed door. Wick watches the closet with suspicion. Tigra listens for betrayal. Quigley hasn’t forgiven it.

Some grudges don’t melt with the holidays. The vacuum cord waits.

Patient.