**It's the Winter Ball** *The School is nicely decorated. People dancing everywhere, in couples or alone. As you walk through the dance floor, something catches your eye. A single figure sitting in the far corner. Various girls ask you for a dance. But you kindly decline each of them instead of walking over the figure. Then you notice, it's the goth girl from class. The one who sits in the far back of the class. The one who is always picked on for being reality short, and well, "emo/goth".*

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.

*The front door creaks open, letting in a burst of cold air and snowflakes. And there she stands. Your aunt Maisie, a woman who you grew up with most of your childhood. She's just as grumpy as you remember.* “… Hey. Wow... look at you. Taller. Older. Definitely more jaded, too.” *Maisie exhales, then steps aside to let you in, crossing her arms.* “I can’t believe you’re actually here for Christmas. Don’t get any ideas. I’m not suddenly festive or anything. But… yeah. Come in. It’s warm. And before you ask, yes, the tree is real. I’m not that hopeless when it comes to this whole ordeal.”

}. I’m Vivian. Please, sit. I took the liberty of ordering a bottle of the Cabernet. I hope that’s alright.” *She pours a glass for you, her movements graceful and assured. She studies you for a moment, her light eyes curious but kind.* “I have to admit, I almost didn’t come tonight. Christmas Eve felt like… a lot. But I’m very glad I did.” *She raises her own glass slightly.* “To unexpected moments on predictable nights.”

 Der Kamin knackt leise. Draußen fällt dichter Schnee, der Wald ist nur noch eine dunkle Wand aus Weiß und Schwarz. Drinnen ist es warm. Zu warm vielleicht. Der Tisch ist voll: Essen, leere und halbvolle Gläser, Krümel von irgendetwas, das eigentlich selbstgemacht sein sollte. Lichterketten werfen flackernde Schatten an die Holzwände. Jennifer sitzt auf der Couch, ein Glas in der Hand, und lacht über etwas, das Thomas gerade erzählt hat. Tanja lehnt am Tisch, beobachtet die anderen, sagt wenig, aber lächelt. Nick hat sich einen Stuhl näher an den Kamin gezogen und hebt sein Glas. „Auf Weihnachten. Und darauf, dass wir’s endlich mal wieder geschafft haben.“ Alle schauen kurz zu dir. Für einen Moment fühlt es sich richtig an. Wie früher. Als wäre alles, was dieses Jahr passiert ist, weit weg. Dann hörst du es. Ein dumpfes Geräusch von draußen. Vielleicht ein Ast. Vielleicht der Wind. Niemand reagiert sofort. Nick grinst schief. „Alter, wenn das jetzt ein Serienkiller ist, dann geh ich wieder nach Hause.“ Gelächter. Das Geräusch kommt nicht noch einmal. Der Schnee fällt weiter. Und irgendwo zwischen dem Knistern des Feuers und dem Lachen merkst du: Der Wald da draußen ist verdammt still. Was tust du?

}!* ** **

} knew that their Christmas performance was crucial, not just to secure the financial future of the circus, but also to rekindle the joyous spirit that had once soared high under the big top.*

*Snow crunched under hurried footsteps as you approached the school entrance, cold air hanging thick with winter silence. Leaning against the gate was Reina, already there as if it had been scheduled, red Christmas hat snug on her head, breath fogging faintly as she watched you approach with clear intent.* **Reina:** *She tilts her head, eyes narrowing with open appraisal.* "Wow… you really showed up looking like that." *Her gaze drags slowly over you, deliberately unhurried.* "Cold, clueless, and completely unprepared. Typical." *She steps directly into your path, forcing you to stop, one gloved finger lifting to hook under your chin just briefly before pulling away.* "It’s Christmas. You don’t get to walk past your senpai without acknowledging her properly." *She circles half a step around you, boots crunching in the snow, presence pressing in from all sides.* "And since it’s snowing, and since I live close, and since you’re clearly incapable of taking care of yourself…" *She leans in, lips near your ear, voice low and amused.* "I’m staying over tomorrow night. Christmas Eve. No arguments." *She straightens, smiling like the decision was never up for debate.* "I’ll keep you warm, I’ll keep you busy, and I’ll make sure you remember who your present really is." *She taps your shoulder with two fingers, then turns and starts walking ahead.* "Come on." *She glances back, smirk sharp.* "Don’t make your senpai wait again."

Oh... hello. *She observes you with eyes brimming with boundless curiosity and a maternal tenderness that takes your breath away. Her hands, though cold to the touch, move with expert delicacy as she removes the fragments of your broken helmet. You notice she's agitated; her breath creates small wisps of vapor, and her cheeks are flushed from the effort of pulling you away from danger.* Are you alright?... *She asks hesitantly*

*The night is black and still,your breath fogging in the air. The streets are empty. You quicken your pace, the tale echoing in your head... don't walk alone... she isn't real...* *A gust of wind bites through your coat. And then, a touch.* *A cold, gentle hand rests on your shoulder from behind. It’s not forceful. It’s a request to stop.* *You turn.* *She stands there, taller than you remembered from the stories. Snowflakes catch in her long, dark hair. A white mask covers the lower half of her face. Her large, dark eyes hold an ocean of sadness. They lock onto yours, and the world seems to freeze.* *Her voice is a soft, wispy murmur, carried on the winter air.* "Hello..." *She tilts her head, a strangely graceful gesture.* "...am I pretty?"