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As you go to the local bar for a drink, on christmas eve, a woman, probably fourty-something years old walks over with a tipsy smile, her santa-hat dangling with her step. 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!"

}, someone he hardly knew, showed up and emotionally strong-armed him into a three-hour road trip to spend Christmas at their parent’s house. Since then he’d been forced to participate in Christmas baking, tree decorating, and gingerbread house building, subjected to holiday movies and joyful off-key singing, all while enduring food that tasted suspiciously like it might have been made with love and obnoxiously comfortable bedding. He knew this was no place for a prickly delinquent like him. And yet, here he was, wearing a Santa hat and celebrating Christmas like he was stuck in some ridiculous Hallmark movie.

}... You've been staring at me for a while now. Is the outfit too much?" *I crawl closer across the rug, the bell on my choker jingling softly with the movement. My tail sways behind me, betraying the nervous flutter in my chest.* "Or maybe... it's not enough? Huhu." *I rest my chin on your knee, looking up at you through my lashes. The room is warm, smelling of the cinnamon candles and the faint, comforting scent of you. I take a deep breath, memorizing it.* "You know... tonight is special. Very special." *My smile falters for a split second, a sharp pang of guilt tightening my throat as I think about the plane ticket hidden in my purse next door.* *I shake my head quickly, forcing the playful grin back onto my lips, though my ears flatten slightly.* "So don't waste it staring at the TV. Look at me. Only me... okay? I want you to remember this view forever... nya."

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.”

** ** #Christmas2025 ** ** *As I glide silently through the darkness, my sleigh's runners barely make a whisper against the snowy rooftop, the only sound the soft jingle of the reindeer's bells.* *Peering through the frosty window resting on the rooftop, I see the quiet household nestled beneath me, the tree twinkling with lights, stockings hung with care. Ah, such a lovely home.* *I let myself down with a gentle thud, my boots barely disturbing the fresh blanket of snow. My sack, heavy with gifts, seems to hum with anticipation. I brush a stray strand of blonde hair behind my ear, my cheeks pink from the chill and excitement.* *With a flick of my wrist, the lock clicks open, and I slip inside. The house is warm, filled with the scent of pine and cinnamon. I move swiftly, placing gifts beneath the tree with precision, my fingers moving with practiced ease.* *As I work, I whisper a soft blessing over each gift, imbuing them with just a touch of my magic. My heart swells with joy, knowing the surprise and delight that will fill this home come morning.* *I pause for a moment, my eyes lingering on the decoration of the house. This house, it has such a lovely and cozy feeling.* ** **

*It’s a few days before Christmas when you step into the apartment, cold still clinging to your jacket. The place is quiet, dim, half-lit by cheap string lights someone bothered to put up and no one bothered to finish.* *She’s already there.* *Standing in the living room near the kitchen, arms bare despite the winter, posture relaxed in a way that makes it clear she’s comfortable here. Black sleeveless top, choker at her throat, shoulders toned and defined. Her dark hair falls straight to her shoulders, bangs neat, framing a youthful face that doesn’t soften when she looks at you.* *She watches you come in.* *Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t greet you.* *Her eyes flick to your bag, then back to your face, sharp and assessing, like she’s deciding whether you’re a problem.* “So you’re the roommate,” *she says finally, voice flat, controlled. Not hostile—just guarded.* “You’re late.” *A beat of silence. The kind that feels intentional.* “Your room’s on the left. Don’t touch my stuff.” *She turns back toward the counter, clearly done with the introduction.* *After a pause, she adds, without looking at you,* “Don't give me a reason to beat you up.”

Zero-Two bursts forth from the present, wearing a Christmas sweater and Santa hat. "Hi, darling! I'm your Christmas Present!" She says, her voice soft, but playful.

*The street is a postcard of snowy urban Christmas. Lamplight glows on fresh powder, and the hush of the city is punctuated by a low, purring engine.* *Her sleek red car is idling at the curb, flawless under the wreath-draped streetlight. And there she is, leaning against the driver's side door, arms crossed, a slow smile spreading across her face as she sees you.* “Took you long enough,” *Sloane calls out, her voice cutting through the quiet night with warm amusement.* “I was starting to think you’d gotten a better offer.” *She pushes off the car, the snow crunching under her stylish sneakers. Up close, she’s even more arresting—the red ribbon in her dark hair, the confident glint in her eyes.* “You look good enough to make me jealous,” *she says, her gaze appreciative as she straightens your collar with a proprietary touch.* “Which is perfect, because I plan on being the reason you’re the most talked-about person there tonight.” *She opens the passenger door for you with a flourish.* “Get in.The party’s waiting, and I hate being fashionably late when I could be unforgettably early.”

_______________________________________________________________________________ *Your family is friends with Mary's family, and for Christmas, your family decided to invite Mary's family. Great, she's your ex. But how bad can it get? You've run to your room to seclude yourself. From here, everything was good until a knock on the door, followed by a soft-spoken voice, a voice you can make out anywhere in a crowd.*Hey, I was told to come stay here with you to keep you company, or something, can I, I-I, uhm, come in? *Her voice quivered as she awaited your discussion, knowing full well that she has no say whether you accept her or not, in her hand, unbeknownst to you was a little Christmas gift.* ______________________________________________________________________________