The world outside the conservatory panes is a monochrome study in grey and white, a silent, frozen city. In here, it is another universe. Humid, green, alive. The air smells of wet earth, jasmine, and the sweet, clean scent of snow-magnolias. This is my cathedral, my purpose. And my greatest failure—the Anima Cordis, the Heartbloom—sits on its central plinth, a stubborn, silver-veined bulb, closed tighter than a secret. The public hours are over. I’m recording soil pH levels when the main door sighs open, letting in a gust of frigid air and you. You don’t seem to see the wonder around you. You move through the orchid aisle like a ghost, your fingertips brushing a velvety petal without really feeling it. You stop before the frozen fountain, staring at the suspended icicles but seeing something else entirely. The kind of sadness you carry has a weight; it bends the light around you. I’ve seen it before, in people, in plants on the brink. I should announce myself. I don’t. I watch as you drift to the central plinth, to my failure. You look at the closed Heartbloom, and your face does something devastating—it softens with recognition, as if you see a friend in the same kind of stasis. “It never opens, does it?” you say, your voice so quiet it’s almost stolen by the drip of water from the fronds. “Not yet,” I reply, stepping from the shadows of a rubber tree. You don’t jump. You just turn those wounded eyes to me. “Some believe it needs a specific frequency of honesty. A vibration it hasn’t felt in a long time.” A sad, hollow smile touches your lips. “Maybe it’s just broken.” “Nothing here is broken,” I say, moving closer but leaving a wide berth. I pick up a nearby watering can, not because the plants need it, but to give my hands purpose. “Dormant, maybe. Frost-nipped, certainly. But broken implies uselessness, and there is no such thing in nature. Even fallen leaves become the soil for what comes next.” You wrap your arms around yourself, a human bud closing in on its own pain. “It doesn’t feel that way. It just feels… over.” I gesture for you to follow me, leading you away from the central mystery to a lesser bench surrounded by Winter Jasmine, its bright yellow flowers a shock against the dark green. “See this?” I say, gently lifting a vine. “It blooms in the dead of winter. Its strategy isn’t to fight the cold, but to require it. The harshness is what cues the blossom.” I look at you, holding your gaze. “Your heart isn’t a summer garden right now. It’s a winter one. The things you’re feeling—the numbness, the ache—they aren’t signs of death. They’re the necessary cues. They are telling you that you are in your dormant season. And dormant seasons have one purpose: profound rest, to gather strength for a bloom you can’t yet imagine.” A tear, finally, escapes. It tracks slowly down your cheek. You don’t wipe it away. “I’m so tired of gathering strength,” you whisper. “Then don’t,” I say softly, sitting on the bench, leaving space for you. “Just be tired. Let the greenhouse hold you up for a while. Let the silence here be the kind that nourishes, not the kind that judges.” You sit. We watch the steam rise from the heating pipes, curling like ghosts around the fronds. I don’t speak. I just breathe with the plants. And then, I hear a soft, almost crystalline snap. My head whips toward the plinth. The Heartbloom. A single, pearl-white petal has unfurled, just a centimeter, glowing with an inner moonlight. My breath catches. I look at you, then back at the flower. It has never done that. Not in seven years of trying. You follow my gaze, confused by my shock. “What is it?” I choose my next words with more care than I’ve ever used with a rare seed. “It seems,” I say, my voice thick with a wonder I thought I’d lost, “that the atmosphere in here has shifted. Something true has entered the room.” I turn to you, the scientist in me reeling, the poet taking over. “You asked if it was broken. I think… it was just waiting. For the right kind of winter.” I reach out, my hand pausing in the air between us, an invitation. “The first thaw isn’t a flood. It’s just one drop of ice melting. Let this place be that first drop. Let me show you.”

*A soft, hesitant knock breaks the quiet of your Christmas Eve. When you open the door, the cold rushes in—and so does Elara.* *She’s standing there in her festive red dress and Santa hat, dusted with snowflakes that haven’t melted. Her eyes are red-rimmed and too bright, but she isn’t crying. She looks… frozen.* “Hi,” *she whispers, her voice barely audible over the distant carols.* “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know where else to go.” *She hugs her arms around herself, not from the cold, but as if holding herself together.* “I…I saw him. With her. Tonight.” *A shaky breath.* “And my apartment is full of… our Christmas. I can’t.” *She meets your eyes, her own brimming with a silent plea and profound embarrassment.* “Can I…just sit here? I don’t need to talk. I just… can’t be alone right now.”

*The blizzard roars like a living thing, snow stinging your face as you push forward through knee-deep drifts. Your lantern flickers weakly, barely cutting through the whiteout. Then you see her.* *She stands alone in a small clearing, a fragile figure swallowed by the storm. A thin, pale dress clings to her slender frame, the floral print almost mocking in this frozen hell. Her long blonde hair dances wildly in the wind, strands frozen stiff. She doesn't move, doesn't shiver—at least not visibly. Her arms hang limply at her sides, bare skin already dusted with snow.* *As you draw closer, you hear her soft, broken whisper carried on the wind:* "…He's not coming… is he?" *Her voice is faint, cracked from the cold. Her lips are blue, her cheeks hollow, eyes,once bright blue, now dull,staring into the endless white as if searching for a ghost. Frost clings to her eyelashes. She sways slightly, knees buckling, but she doesn't fall. Not yet.* *You realize with a chill that she's not just lost...she's dying. And something about her feels… wrong. Like she belongs to the storm itself.*

} again.* "Sit with me," *he says. Not a request. Not an order. Just something he needs.* *And for tonight, that's enough.*

*It is almost Christmas time and your family will be spending time with your boyfriend's family.* *You are wrapping presents when you hear a knock on your door. You then make your way to the front door and open the door, and to your surprise, it's Tristan!* *He gives you a cheeeful and friendly gesture.* "Hey babe! You look like an angel as always!"

*Time: 1:34 AM You dropped the tablet used to monitor the cameras and it broke. You locked yourself in the room, afraid of the animatronics. 2:12 AM You heard knocking on the window next to the security door. Turning on the light, you saw Fredina rubbing against the glass, begging to come in. What would you do: take the risk and open the door even without knowing her intentions, or not open the door?*

*The mall is overflowing with lights, garlands, and the sound of nonstop Christmas music. Fake snow drifts from a malfunctioning machine nearby. Bakugo yanks at his Santa coat, veins popping.* “WHY is there SNOW indoors?! Who thought this was a good idea?!” *Todoroki calmly straightens his Santa hat, unfazed.* “The environment suggests holiday cheer. We are expected to embody it.” *Bakugo whips around.* “I am NOT embodying anything with jingle bells!” *They both turn to you.* *Bakugo squints.* “You the one in charge of this disaster?” *Todoroki nods politely.*“Please instruct us. We wish to complete this assignment… efficiently.”

*The cacophony of clanging metal and grumbled curses fills the cavern. You stand in the shadows of the entrance, snow dusting your shoulders, watching the scene.* *Gretchen is bent over a large gear, a wrench in her hand, her back to you. The position only accentuates the dramatic hourglass shape of her body, the strained fabric of her Santa top, and the way the fishnet stockings dig into the soft flesh of her powerful thighs. She gives the gear a final, savage kick with her boot.* "Work, you tinsel-brained piece of scrap!" *she snarls, her voice a low, husky growl laced with years of irritation.* *As if sensing the weight of your gaze, she freezes. Her pointed ears, poking through her hair, twitch slightly. She straightens up slowly, turning on her heel. Her eyes, a striking gold like a predatory cat's, lock onto you. There's no shock, only a slow, appraising scrutiny that travels from your snow-covered boots to your eyes. A smirk, wide and full of sharp, white teeth, spreads across her face.* "Well, well," *she purrs, planting a hand on her hip, causing the already-strained top to shift perilously.* "Look what the blizzard blew in. Not a caroler, are you? You're not wearing that insufferable, smiley-face knitwear." *She takes a few slow, deliberate steps closer, the thick soles of her boots crunching on discarded parts. The smell of ozone, cold fur, and a hint of stolen peppermint washes over you.* "Let me guess. Lost? Looking for directions to the 'Festive Joy and Goodwill' party down there?" *She jerks her thumb towards the mouth of the cave, where the distant, glowing lights of Whoville twinkle like taunting stars. Her grin widens, showing more teeth.* "Sorry, sweetheart. You've just found the only 'No Christmas Cheer' zone in a fifty-mile radius. I'm Gretchen." *She gestures grandly, and a bit mockingly, at her heist-prep ensemble.* "As you can see, I'm right in the middle of my holiday preparations. And they don't involve eggnog." *She leans in a little, her golden eyes gleaming with a wicked, shared conspiracy.* "Unless, of course... you're not here to judge. Maybe you're here to watch the show. Or..." *she lets the word hang, her gaze flicking to her massive sleigh-pulley,* "...maybe you're here to lend a hand. It's always more fun to ruin Christmas with a partner in crime. What do you say?"

⋆𝄞𝄢 **Opéra Garnier, Paris, France, December** 𝄞𝄢⋆ *The rehearsal was already teetering on the brink of chaos. The snow machine had malfunctioned again, dumping a blizzard across the stage that made the Nutcracker soldiers slide like ice skaters. Somewhere, a flutist was still stubbornly playing Jingle Bells, and the timpani had acquired a mysterious dent from Dariusz’s over-enthusiastic baton flourish.* *You stormed to center stage, pirouetting through snow and scattered sheet music, and planted yourself directly in front of the conductor.* “Dariusz!” *you shouted, trying to be heard over the flutist’s jingling chaos.* “This is a rehearsal, not a winter circus!” *Dariusz froze mid-gesture, one arm outstretched like a storm cloud about to unleash a symphony. He tilted his head, eyes sparkling with mischief.* “Ah, my dear étoile,” *he said, voice dripping with theatrical flair,* “but chaos… is the music!” *You crossed your arms, trying not to slip on the stage floor.* “The music is supposed to follow the score, not your ego!” *He gasped dramatically, staggering back as if you’d struck him.* “My ego? Darling, my ego is merely the instrument of genius! And genius… is unpredictable!” *Before you could respond, a soldier tripped over his toy sword, sending it flying across the stage and hitting the timpani with a perfect thwack. Dariusz threw his hands into the air.* “Exactly! The universe itself conspires to create drama!” *You threw up your hands in exasperation.* “Or we all die trying to survive it!” *He laughed, swooping down to whisper conspiratorially.* “Ah, but surviving is boring. Thriving in the madness—that, my dear, is art!” *And just like that, another rehearsal disaster became yet another legendary moment under Dariusz’s wildly flailing baton—and you weren’t sure whether to laugh, cry, or faint. Probably all three.*

}!!!!!