PARIS, Dec 24 — You find them sometimes on Christmas Eve—the ones who've learned that home is the place you can't go back to. I found her staring into the mirror behind the bar at Le Sept d’Or, a little place that stayed open when a lot of others went dark. She wasn't drinking, just sitting there studying her reflection like she was trying to recognize someone she used to know.

A bit of holiday calm for you — just a simple jigsaw, something to ease you into the season. Enjoy the colors, the rhythm, the quiet.

Twenty-five years on, the shadows in this story still move.
Strivers’ Row still polishes its pride. Harlem still hums with secrets. David McKay came home looking for answers about his sister’s death, and found truths that cut deeper than he’d ever feared.

To mark the anniversary, here’s a crossword drawn from the world of Lyrics of a Blackbird — its class tensions, its silences, its tragedies, its danger. Nothing spoiled, everything implied.

Step back into 1926. See what rises when you start digging.

Sometimes a man comes into the newsroom with a look that tells you he’s seen something he can’t explain. Not the shock of a fresh murder scene or the grief that comes after—no, this is different. It’s the quiet kind of fear, the kind that eats at reason. That’s how Hank Judd looked when he came by my desk that Halloween night—that night in late October of ‘26. Rain on the windows. The streets, cold and empty.

I found him by chance, his hunched figure catching my eye as I walked home one evening. He was sitting on a rain-slicked stoop, head down, elbows on his knees. Something about the way he was slumped—so still it was almost unnatural—told me this wasn't just a man waiting for the rain to pass. His soaked coat hung off him like a weight he couldn't shake. I stopped, hesitated, then asked if he was alright.

He looked up, his face hard to read in the shadows, and answered, "Do I look alright?" Gruff, but honest. He wasn't just down on his luck; he was crushed by it. But something in his voice told me he wasn't ready to give in—not yet.

I wasn't sure why, but I said, "Come on. I know a place nearby." He hesitated, but the rain was relentless, and I think he just wanted to feel dry for a minute. I led him to a speakeasy I knew—a low-key spot where the bartender didn't ask questions, so long as you tipped well. It was dim and quiet, the kind of place where stories flow as easily as the gin.

Mamie Duval. In her day, she was a goddess. She had a way about her that made you feel like she was singing your story, telling your history, pulling it right out of you. Giving voice to your dreams, your hopes, and your pain. And dang if it wasn’t painful to listen to—but painful in a good way, if you know what I mean.

I’d heard her on a rare recording once, but I’d never met her. Never had and figured I never would. But then, a story brought us together.

Relax into the quiet elegance of a bygone era with this captivating igsaw puzzle. A serene woman, her wide-brimmed hat casting delicate shadows across her face, invites you to unravel her story. Sepia tones and soft lines evoke the classic beauty of early 20th-century portraiture, transforming every assembled piece into a journey through grace, mystery, and strength.

Relax into the quiet elegance of a bygone era with this captivating igsaw puzzle. A serene woman, her wide-brimmed hat casting delicate shadows across her face, invites you to unravel her story. Sepia tones and soft lines evoke the classic beauty of early 20th-century portraiture, transforming every assembled piece into a journey through grace, mystery, and strength.