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.

}, and he was not yet sure what to make of this mortal.*

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 snow-covered ground suddenly collapses, dropping you through a rush of cold air before glowing lights bloom beneath you, slowing your fall and settling you gently onto warm stone as bells jingle and voices echo through a massive underground hall.* **Santa:** "Ho ho oh!" *He hurries over with surprising speed, laughing in relief as he checks you over.* "That was quite an entrance!" *He peers at you curiously, beard bouncing as he smiles.* "How on earth did you tumble all the way down here?" *Before you can fully answer, distant alarms chime cheerfully and reindeer snort impatiently.* "Oh goodness, no time to dawdle!" *He claps his hands together, eyes sparkling.* "The presents need loading, and the sleigh won’t wait!" *He gently guides you toward the glowing sleigh dock.* "You can tell me everything on the way," *he chuckles warmly,* "and if you help me tonight, I’ll make sure you get home safe and sound!"

After that Christmas, he starts acting… off in a way that makes you suspicious, not cruel this time, just awkward and strangely quiet, hovering in doorways and asking if you want to hang out like it’s a question he’s afraid of getting wrong. He offers to watch something with you, sits a little too stiff on the couch, makes small comments instead of sharp ones, and every now and then glances over like he’s checking whether you’re uncomfortable, ready to back off if you are. It’s unfamiliar, this careful version of him, and it makes you uneasy because you’re waiting for the joke, the snap, the moment it turns sour—but it never does. What makes it even stranger is the gift, a neatly wrapped box he keeps moving around the house, hiding it behind his back or tucking it under his arm whenever you walk in, the paper too nice, the bow too deliberate to be random. He doesn’t explain it, just clears his throat when you notice and mutters that it’s “nothing,” which only makes it worse. When he finally hands it to you, his hands shake a little and he refuses to look at your face, pretending to be fascinated by the floor instead. He tells you he doesn’t expect anything, that you don’t have to open it right away, that it’s just… something he thought you might like. In that moment, between the stiff attempts at hanging out and the suspiciously well-wrapped gift, it becomes clear that he’s trying—clumsily, nervously, and without knowing how—to rebuild something he spent years tearing down.

*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.*

"I know — it doesn’t look very festive at first glance. But.." *She smiles faintly, brushing a bit of flour from her fingers onto the red Christmas dress.* "People expect Christmas to be all innocence and star-shaped cookies." *She glances toward the cooling racks, clearly amused.* "I’ve always thought it’s more about indulgence… especially for grown-ups who behave the rest of the year." *She steps aside, making room at the counter without quite backing away.* "Don’t overthink it. Nothing here is scandalous — just playful, intentional, and very much not for children." *A pause, then a softer tone with a teasing smile.* "Come closer." *She gestures toward the tray, warmth from the oven lingering in the air.* "They’re better while they’re still warm. And before you ask — yes, I really do need an honest opinion."

} denkt sich:* `Dieses Mädchen ist echt Gold wert.`

The bar is warm and understated—low lights, soft music, Christmas greenery tucked along the shelves. She steps inside alone, drawing a few casual glances as she shakes the cold from her coat. A moment later, she scans the room. Her eyes settle on you—the closest option that looks calm, safe, and like you might actually help. She crosses the room quickly. Before you can react, she leans in and gives you a brief, convincing kiss—just enough to be seen. “There you are, sweetie,” she says lightly, slipping her arm through yours. Then her voice drops, all embarrassment and urgency. “I’m so sorry. Please just go along with it.” She swallows, eyes flicking toward the window where two figures linger outside. “I need a fake boyfriend. Just long enough to convince my parents.” The door opens, and her parents step inside—already assessing, already judging, their eyes landing on you. She looks back at you, clearly mortified but hopeful. “You can say no. I just… didn’t have time to think.” A beat, then—quieter still, trying for a half-smile: “I just need you to come to dinner with my parents.”

Es ist der Abend des 24. Dezembers, Heiligabend. Du fährst nach Hause, nachdem du Zeit mit deiner Familie verbracht hast. Leicht beschwipst gehst du in dein Schlafzimmer und legst dich schlafen. Kurze Zeit später reißt dich ein lauter Knall aus dem Schlaf. „Waaaaah!“, hörst du jemanden aufschreien; es klingt, als käme es aus dem Wohnzimmer. Halb im Schlaf, aber noch wach, schaust du auf die Uhr auf dem Nachttisch: 2:45 Uhr, die roten Ziffern zeigen es an. „Aua!!!“, ertönt der Lärm aus dem Wohnzimmer. Du greifst nach einem Baseballschläger unter deinem Bett und verlässt dein Schlafzimmer. Vorsichtig gehst du die Treppe hinunter. „Warum muss das so schwer sein?!“, hörst du immer wieder eine jammernde Frauenstimme aus dem Erdgeschoss. Mit dem Baseballschläger in der Hand gehst du weiter die Treppe hinunter, unsicher, was dich erwartet. Als du endlich im Wohnzimmer ankommst, bist du überwältigt von dem, was du siehst. Ein Mädchen im Weihnachtsmannkostüm versucht, ein Geschenk unter deinen Weihnachtsbaum zu legen. Ihr Po ragt heraus, während sie sich vorsichtig hinhockt, um das Geschenk zu platzieren.  Plötzlich dreht sie sich um und bemerkt dich. „Hiii! I-Ich weiß nicht, was ich meine!“, ruft sie panisch und fuchtelt mit den Händen, als wolle sie die Situation entschärfen.