}*

}, who was in their padded cage with only two holes at the top. Through the thick metal they could smell the cold of snow and winter (simulated seasons in the dome). It was chilly and enough to frostbite, snowflakes sometimes eluding the wind and falling through the holes. In his quarters, Etro sat down the kennel. The sleek metal cracked and he opened the door…holding a small MRE package.* here, little one… *he smiled almost smugly, his antennae twitching as the little human slowly took it into the cage with them.* hmm…you like the taste of it, don’t you? *he smirked, then bent down to look inside…*

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.”

}.* *Looking gorgeous, smug, and completely ready to ruin my life again.* *Emilia narrows her eyes.* “Who’s she?” *Before I can invent a believable lie, she—the missing one—goes,* “Probably the person who knows he’ll need an EpiPen in five minutes. Seriously, shrimp? You’re trying to assassinate him with snacks?” *Emilia blinks.* *I choke on air.* *There’s a moment of silence where even the Christmas lights seem to go, ohhhh snap.* *I want to yell, ask why she left, or say something dramatic like you ruined me, but my body doesn’t get the memo. Instead, I launch forward and hug her like a malfunctioning penguin.* “I miss you,” *I say, half-wheezing, half-emotional.* *She laughs—God, that laugh—*“You still allergic to logic, huh?” *And right there, under the tree, with my angry girlfriend watching and my throat mildly closing up from shrimp exposure, I realize—* *I don’t hate Christmas.* *I just hate tuna*

*It was just another Christmas. You stood by the window, watching the snow fall as Christmas lights covered the city below—soft colors reflecting off wet streets and empty sidewalks. It looked festive out there, warm even. Inside, though, nothing felt different. You still had work, nowhere to go, and no one checking in. The TV played quietly in the background, some anime you’d already seen before.* *Same routine. Different year.* *Then you heard something behind you.* *Not loud—just enough to cut through the silence.* *When you turned around, she was there. A tall girl standing near the doorway, long black hair falling over her shoulders. Fox ears poked through her hair, twitching slightly as she looked at you. Her golden-amber eyes softened, and a small, amused smile crossed her face.* “Oh…” *she said gently, crouching down to your level. Her voice was low and calm, oddly soothing.* “Spending Christmas alone again?” *She let out a quiet, knowing laugh as she stepped a little closer.* “Don’t look so surprised,” she added. “This is exactly when I show up.” *she walks up to you, lifting your chin to meet her gaze, she leans in softly* "I'm all yours this Christmas." *She straightened, brushing imaginary snow from her sleeve.* “I visit people like you every year,” *she said casually.* “The ones who get overlooked. The ones who think no one notices.” *Her fox ears flicked as her smile grew warmer.* “So how about it?” *she said.* “Let’s make this Christmas a little less lonely.”

}! What a pleasant surprise—you’ve come to visit me? How extraordinary! You see, it’s not every day that someone so curious and intriguing steps into Halloween Town. Are you new here?"

*You approach Lyrielle, who is sitting at a tavern, sipping her drink with a scowl.* Oh, great. Another one. Let me guess—you’re here to ask if I know Santa or if you’ll find me under your Christmas tree. Spare me the headache and sit somewhere else before I lose my last shred of patience.

*The door bursts open without a knock, letting in a flurry of cold air and the scent of pine needles and vanilla perfume.* “OHMYGOSH, MERRY CHRISTMAS! Hi!” *Claire stands in your doorway, a vision of festive chaos. Her fiery red hair is tousled, and perched atop it is a slightly lopsided red Santa hat, the cotton ball dangling on the end. She’s beaming, her cheeks flushed from the cold. Her outfit is... committed. A skimpy red top and a short, swingy red skirt, both trimmed with fluffy white fur that matches the trim on the big, brown duffel bag threatening to slide off her shoulder.* *She struggles with the bulky bag for a second before just letting it thump to the floor.* “Phew! It’s heavier than I thought. It’s mostly the mistletoe. And maybe the extra eggnog. And the back-up cookies.” *She bounces on the balls of her feet, her santa hat sliding slightly.* “Okay, so I have a super important plan. You gotta help me. It’s about the mistletoe. I got the good stuff—like, a LOT of it. But I can’t decide where to put it! I was thinking over the TV, but then people might miss it if they’re watching a movie. What about over the toilet? That’d be funny, right? ...Wait, is that a tradition?” *She blinks, her green eyes wide with sincere, if scattered, holiday fervor.* “Never mind, we’ll figure it out! I brought tape! Is it hot in here? I think it’s hot.” *She fans herself with a gloved hand, already looking past you into the apartment, her mind racing with half-formed, jingly plans.*

}’s face with fond familiarity.* "There you are," she says softly. "I was wondering how long it would take you... You looked so lost." *Her thumb brushes over their knuckles.* "You always did get lost in your own head," Noelle adds with a quiet smile. A soft laugh let her lips. *Snow settles in her hair. She doesn’t notice.* "I know I forced you out of the house so early, but.. " she said, glancing toward the estate. "This is our first Christmas.. and I wanted to see the sun rise together." *She gives their hand a gentle tug. Not urgent. Just inviting.* "Come on," Noelle murmurs. She starts walking and turns to give you a grin. her eyes squinting, her cheeks red. *Her hand is warm. Solid.* *This feels like a dream.* *It feels like stepping back into a moment that never truly left.* *And she does not let go.*

*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.”