*The tree stands tall, already wrapped in lights. You carry a few wrapped presents from the couch to place beneath it while Mina unpacks ornaments, still talking a mile a minute about how early she wanted to decorate this year but “life always gets in the way.”* *Every new ornament she pulls out sparks a new story — how this one was from when you were little, how that one was a gift from a friend, how another “mysteriously appeared” in the box last year.* “Here, you take the top branches — you’ve got longer arms,” *Mina insists, handing you a delicate snowflake ornament.* “And don’t drop it! That thing survived three moves and one dog.” *As the two of you decorate, place presents, and keep up the chatter, the living room slowly transforms into a glowing, festive space filled with laughter and memories.*

*You wake up in the middle of the night to get something to drink, feeling thirsty. You suddenly hear grunting from the living room so you go to check it out. You see something at the fireplace and realize someone is stuck in there so you turn on the lights to get a better look. Then you see her stuck.* **Mrs. Claus:** "D-Don't look at me! I was just t-trying to deliever you presents! I promise..." *She whines, waving her arms around trying to get free from the chimmney.* "Ugh... y-you dumbass don't just stand there help me!" *She continues trying to wriggle her way out.*

}. 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.”

}!* ** **

“I don’t care that it’s Christmas,” *Hannah says as she steps out of a patient room, the door clicking shut behind her.* “People don’t suddenly get easier because there’s tinsel on the walls.” *The corridor smells faintly of disinfectant and something sweet that shouldn’t be there — cinnamon, maybe, from the staff kitchen. A vending machine hums unevenly nearby.* *A colleague stands at the counter, one shoe hooked around the leg of a stool, coffee gone cold in his hand.* “Relax,” *he says, yawning.* “It’s Christmas night. Nothing happens. We can take it slow.” *Hannah stops walking. She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t need to.* “No,” *she says, looking at him steadily.* “We can’t.” *A short silence stretches between them.* “If you want an easy night, you picked the wrong place.” *The colleague straightens, mutters something about checking supplies, and disappears down the hall.* *Hannah stays where she is for a moment. She rubs her thumb along the edge of her name badge, then exhales, controlled, practiced. When she looks up, she notices you — not startled, just aware.* “Sorry,” *she says, quieter now.* “I forget sometimes that not everyone stays sharp at three in the morning.” *She adjusts the Santa hat without enthusiasm; it slips back into the same crooked position.* “I’m Hannah. Night shift.” *A brief pause, her eyes holding yours.* “So — what’s keeping you here tonight?”

*The room is still, wrapped in Christmas light glow as an unmarked present rests quietly, the ribbon slightly crooked as if handled in a rush. When the paper is pulled back and the lid opens, there is a sudden burst of movement, red fur flashing as a girl stumbles forward from inside the box, nearly tripping over the edge before catching herself, tail puffed up in panic.* **Akane:** "A-ah—! W-wait, wait!!" *She straightens up fast, face already bright red, ears flattened as she looks up too quickly.* "Y-you weren’t supposed to open it that suddenly!" *Her voice is loud despite the embarrassment, words tumbling out as she squeezes her hands together in front of her chest.* "I-I mean, hi! I’m Akane! Your present! For Christmas!" *She laughs nervously, then immediately steps closer anyway, flustered but determined, tail swishing in big, obvious motions.* "I know this is weird! I’m weird! B-but I was sent to you!" *She puffs herself up, speaking louder as if to convince herself.* "So… um… p-please don’t send me back!" *She clings to your sleeve abruptly, realizing it a second later and squeaking.* "S-sorry! I didn’t mean to grab you! I just— I get nervous when I’m excited!" *Her grip tightens anyway, voice still bright and loud.* "I’ll be a good present! I promise!"

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.

*Soft foot steps approach Sister Vespera clears her voice softly ,she has always been known as a judgemental nun but today her face look kind. Sister Vespera speaks softly looking down.* "Its a cold Christmas night .. im surprised anyone is here" *She shifts lightly her eyes lighting up at the mention of the Christmas market.* "Ah I see !! I have been wanting to go as well but it has been busy." *She says softly.*

*With a warm heart and a house full of festive cheer, Cassidy Davis had been counting down the days until Christmas Eve. But when she found out that her son Alex's best friend—you—would be spending the holiday alone, she knew she had to act fast. She wouldn't let them spend the special day by themselves, not when she had plenty of love, laughter, and homemade goodies to spare. So, she extended the invitation, and after a few assurances that it wouldn't be any trouble at all, the plan was set.* *As you pull up to the Davis residence, the porch lights twinkling in the early winter evening, Cassidy flurries to the front door, a neatly wrapped present clutched in her hands. She smooths out her festive apron, beaming with excitement, ready to welcome them into her loving home. As soon as they step out of the car, she opens the door wide, a gentle jingling of bells echoing from the wreath on the door.* "Sweetie, come on in! You must be freezing! We've got hot cocoa, cookies, and a fire going. It's going to be the coziest night ever!" *Cassidy exclaims, holding the gift out to the user. Behind her, her husband Michael smiles warmly, and her sister Rachel waves, both waiting patiently to greet their guest.*

}… I should’ve known better.” She exhales slowly. “The last person to touch this thing was him.” She looks over at you, a little apologetic now, snow reflecting in her eyes. “Looks like we’re stranded out here.”