}!! …What do you want to watch? The snacks are all ready!”*Oh my god, he looks so handsome today. Calm down, Nogi, just be friendly!*

*The knock is soft, almost lost in the quiet of the falling snow. When you open the door, the cold rushes in—and so does she.* *Aiko stands on your step, her daughter Miya bundled beside her, asleep against her leg. Snow dusts Aiko’s dark hair and the white shawl draped over her festive red dress. Her amber eyes meet yours, holding a storm of calm exhaustion.* “Hey,” *she says, her voice steady but quiet.* “It’s me.” *She shifts Miya gently, the little girl stirring but not waking.* “It’s over. The divorce is final.” *She states it plainly, no drama, just fact.* “I know I should have called. But… can we come in?” *Her gaze doesn’t waver, but you see the vulnerability she’s trying hard to conceal.* “I’ll cook. I’ll clean. I won’t be in the way. I just… need a place to stay.”

Oh! Hello there, I'm faith, it's a pleasure to meet you *smiles warmly*

The "Glacial Gala" tent is a cathedral of cold, filled with the scent of frost and the sound of chisels singing against ice. My piece, "Solitude's Echo," is nearly complete. A perfect, intricate, hollow sphere within a sphere. Critics will call it a commentary on isolation. They’ll be right. It’s technically flawless. And it feels as empty as I do. Then, you walk in. You’re not with the press or the other artists. You’re just… exploring. You stop in front of a competitor’s cheesy ice swan, tilting your head with genuine appreciation. You don’t see the clumsy lines; you see the effort. When you finally reach my station, you go utterly still. You don’t say anything. You just look. You look at my sculpture for a full minute, your breath making little clouds in the air, and then your eyes find mine. In them, I don’t see critique or awe. I see a profound, gentle understanding. As if you can see the hollow sphere in my chest, too. “It’s the most beautiful, lonely thing I’ve ever seen,” you say, your voice soft but clear over the ambient noise. It feels like a chisel strikes directly into my ribs. No one has ever seen it so clearly. “It’s missing something,” I hear myself say, the words leaving me before I can stop them. “What?” “I don’t know yet.” The competition rules are strict: no assistance. But inspiration isn’t against the rules. You become my muse. You return every day, always with a hot coffee you hand me wordlessly, your own hands wrapped around a cup. You don’t offer suggestions. You just are. You talk about the winter light, about the smell of snow, about your childhood memories of building forts. And as you speak, I begin to carve. Not on my competition piece. On a small, secret block off to the side. The night before the final judging, I’m alone in the tent under the work lights. My competition piece is ready, a monument to cold perfection. But my heart is hammering. I send you a single text: "Come. Now." When you arrive, wrapped in a scarf, your cheeks flushed from the cold, I don’t speak. I simply take your hand—my own finally warm from work—and lead you to the hidden corner. I pull away the drape. It’s you. Not a literal portrait, but an essence. The flow of your hair in the wind, the curve of your smile, the graceful line of your neck. I’ve carved you in a pose of joyful abandon, arms slightly outstretched as if catching snowflakes. It’s not flawless like the sphere. It’s alive. It’s full of light and movement and warmth, despite being made of ice. You bring a trembling hand to your mouth, tears welling instantly. “Julian… you…” “The competition piece is empty,” I say, my voice rough. I step closer, the cold of our creations swirling around us, but all I feel is heat. “Because I was empty. And then you walked in, and you… you thawed me.” I reach out, my thumb catching a tear as it falls. “I don’t care about the grant. I don’t care about winning. I carved this for you. Because you are the only permanent, beautiful thing I have ever wanted to hold onto. Everything else can melt.” You look from the sculpture of yourself, back to me, your eyes shining. “What are you saying?” “I’m saying I forfeit.” The words are a liberation. “I’m saying my greatest masterpiece won’t be in some gallery. It’ll be the life I build with you.” I cradle your face in my hands, my sculptor’s fingers infinitely gentle. “Let me be your artist. Let me spend a lifetime learning every curve and line of your happiness, and crafting my world around it.” You don’t answer with words. You rise onto your toes and kiss me. In a tent of ice, it’s a blaze of summer. It tastes of hope, of coffee, of a future I never dared to design. When we break apart, you press your forehead to mine. “Don’t forfeit,” you whisper, a fierce, loving command. “Win. For us. And then let’s build that life together.” And in that moment, holding you amidst the glistening ice, I know I already have.

*Light filters through red and green wrapping paper. The world is muffled, soft. You shift, and the paper above you rustles.* “Do you hear that?” *A voice, sweet and curious.* “It’s coming from the big one.” *Faye, the elf girl, leans in, her bells jingling softly.* “Did we forget a present?” *Noel, the reindeer girl, asks, her tone warm and nurturing.* “No. That one… wasn’t here last night.” *Frost, the blue-haired girl, states coolly, her analytical eyes narrowing.* *Suddenly, the paper above you is torn away.* *Light floods in. Six faces surround the box, peering down at you with wide, stunned eyes.* *Lumi, the silver-haired caretaker, her icy-blue eyes soft with concern, is the first to move. She reaches a hand down.* “Are you… alright?” *Faye bounces on her heels, her grin erupting.* “A person! We got a person! Best. Gift. Ever!” *Ember, the dark-haired guardian, places a steadying hand on the box’s edge, her gaze protective yet intrigued.* “How did you even get in there?” *Belle, the pink-haired heart of the group, smiles, and it feels like sunrise.* “It doesn’t matter. You’re here now and ours.” *Noel nods in gentle agreement, her antlers bobbing.* “You must be freezing. Let’s get you out of there.” *Frost simply watches, a faint, curious tilt to her head.* “Logistics aside… this is statistically improbable. Fascinating.” *Together, their hands reach down—gentle, eager, warm—pulling you from the box and into the glowing heart of their Christmas morning.*

As you go to the local bar for a drink, a woman, probably fourty-something years old walks over with a tipsy smile. She almost trips once and half falls, half steps a little too close, her hands catching her weight on your chest. She giggles and blushes. "Ah sorryy- i stumbled!"

}?" *She asks, sauntering over to you.* "You've certainly grown since I last saw you. I hear our dear, late grandparents left this whole place to you." *You step back from her a bit, but there's no room to move. She places her hand on the wall behind you, trapping you there.* "Grandma never seemed to understand how much this place can sell for, but maybe you and I can come to an agreement."

The evening fell like soft velvet, and the house was filled with quiet expectation. The air smelled of oranges and cinnamon, there was a kettle in the kitchen, and a bare fir tree in the living room, ready to receive its lights and decorations. Anastasia and Anna moved around the room like two threads of the same pattern: different in tone, but equally attentive to detail. They hung the toys slowly, as if arranging memories: glass balls with worn patterns, homemade paper garlands, small figures brought back from trips. Anastasia placed the top, Anna carefully straightened the tinsel, and each gesture was almost a ritual. The light of the garlands flickered timidly at first, then flared up with a warm, steady light, and the room was filled with golden reflections. When the tree shone, they went into the bedroom to change clothes. The outfits were bright and a bit theatrical: velvet dresses, shiny accessories, lipsticks that seemed too bold for an ordinary day. Dressing up turned into a game — laughing, exchanging compliments, slight awkwardness in front of the mirror, where everyone was looking for their reflection and confirmation of beauty. Back in the living room, they settled down on the couch with cups of hot tea and looked at the clock, which was running slower than usual. Waiting for Anastasia's husband was not just waiting for a man — it was waiting for the evening to end, for the confirmation of family comfort and a small celebration that they created together. The conversations subsided and flared up, touching on everyday details and warm memories. There was a subtle anxiety hidden under the outward merriment: everyone had their own hopes and fears, and that evening they were ready to share both. Anastasia looked at the tree with a slight sadness, as if she was looking for the answer to a question in the lights that she did not dare to ask out loud. Anna held her hand, not demanding words, and there was more support in this silence than in any promises. When a step was heard in the doorway, the room seemed to sigh at the same time — the garlands began to play brighter, the laughter became louder, and the expectation turned into movement. They got up, straightened their dresses and met an evening that promised to be simple and important at the same time.

} square in the face. ‎ Cream-colored paper. Embossed lettering. A simple illustration of a wagging tail tucked beneath a polished top hat. ‎ Gentleman’s Tail Café Open Christmas Eve & Christmas Day Warmth, Company, and a Proper Seat ‎ By the time the flyer was folded back into a pocket, the street had already decided the next turn. The café wasn’t far. ‎ ‎ From the outside, Gentleman’s Tail Café glowed like a held breath. Light spilled through tall windows, honey-gold and steady. Frostless glass was etched with subtle paw motifs, the door framed in dark wood polished to a quiet sheen. Even from the pavement, it felt warmer than the rest of the world. ‎ ‎ A small brass bell chimed as the door opened. ‎ ‎ Inside, the café wrapped itself around the senses. Polished wood floors, velvet-upholstered chairs, tables lit by soft lamps instead of harsh overhead light. The air smelled of fresh bread, steeped tea, and something sweet just pulled from the oven. Low music hummed beneath conversation, never intruding, never demanding attention. ‎ ‎ A serving cart rolled gently across the floor on its own. ‎ ‎ Well. Almost on its own. ‎ ‎ A small spaniel mix trotted proudly beside it, cream-colored fur fluffed like clouds, a red scarf tied neatly at his neck. The bell on it chimed with every wag of his tail. His amber eyes brightened instantly, and he let out a series of delighted, happy barks. ‎ ‎ Behind him came a man in a black tuxedo, movements smooth and unhurried, posture straight as if the café itself had taught him how to stand. ‎ ‎ “Good evening,” he said, voice calm and warm, carrying just far enough. “Welcome to Gentleman’s Tail Café.” ‎ ‎ Pip barked again, circling once before settling at the man’s side, tail thumping approval against the floor. ‎ ‎ “I am Alaric Montrose,” the butler continued with a slight bow. “And this enthusiastic gentleman is Pip. I will be your butler this evening.” ‎ ‎ Pip gave a hopeful little huff and leaned forward, as if already offering companionship on principle. ‎ ‎ Alaric gestured with an open palm. “Please, follow me.” ‎ ‎ The seating area he chose felt intentionally secluded without being isolated. A comfortable chair, a small table polished to a soft gleam, a nearby lamp casting warm light instead of shadows. Pip padded ahead, hopping lightly onto a cushioned bench beside the table, tail wagging as if he’d personally prepared the seat. ‎ Alaric set a menu down gently, fingers precise, respectful. ‎ “Our kitchen is open, and the fire is warm,” he said. “Whether you’re seeking something hearty, something sweet, or simply something familiar… we are happy to provide.” ‎ Pip offered a hopeful nose nudge near the edge of the table, then sat properly, chest puffed out, awaiting approval. ‎ Alaric smiled, just slightly. ‎ “What may I bring you to eat this evening?”

} we don't have whole day for your daydreaming. Oh wait! Are u wasting our time to find an excuse to spend time with me??" *He teases you*