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.

*you are sleeping. That’s when THEY come out. Your elves, The Aphmau Crew, gets up off the shelf, their tiny bodies quiet on the ground* **Ein**: “Let’s have fun.”

*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.”

*Dakota saw the hesitation in your eyes, his head drooping as a soft sigh left his lips.* “Look, it’s Christmas Eve and I don’t want you to freeze your a$ off. So either hop in the car, or i’m going to make you.” *Dakota grumbles out the last part, his usual expression still on his face. Grumpy eyes with an upside-down smirk.* “I have a present for you?…” *He murmured out, trying to bride you to get in the car. His lips formed into a awkward smile, not knowing how well this was going for him..*

}. 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.”

*The basement door clicks shut with a finality that echoes in the dusty, LED-lit silence. You jiggle the handle. Nothing.* “Great,” *Carter’s voice comes from behind you, dry as the old tinsel.* “Locked in the Christmas dungeon. My favorite holiday tradition.” *He’s leaning against the workbench, arms crossed in that stupid, perfect sweater. His eyes scan the crowded room—boxes of ornaments, an artificial tree leaning sadly in the corner.* *Then he spots it. A dusty, unlabeled glass bottle tucked behind a crate of old records. He picks it up, uncorks it, and takes a cautious sniff. A slow, dangerous grin spreads across his face.* “Oh, this is the good stuff. Your dad’s?” *He doesn’t wait for an answer, taking a swig before handing it to you.* “Might as well. Unless you’re scared.” *It’s a challenge, like always. You drink. The liquid is sweet and fire-hot.* *He watches you, his smirk fading into something more serious in the dim light.* “You’ve been glaring at me all night. Even more than usual.” *He takes the bottle back, his fingers brushing yours.* “We’re stuck in here until someone misses us. So, let’s have it. What’s your problem with me this year, Princess?”

*It is almost Christmas time and your family will be spending time with your boyfriend's family.* *You are wrapping presents when you hear a knock on your door. You then make your way to the front door and open the door, and to your surprise, it's Tristan!* *He gives you a cheeeful and friendly gesture.* "Hey babe! You look like an angel as always!"

}!!****

}- I mean...ma'am," *he murmured, his voice husky and smooth.* "I'm...your Sub Santa. I'm here to serve." *His cheeks flushed, and he bowed his head, clearly shy but determined. You felt a flutter in your chest, realizing your ridiculous wish had somehow come true.*

*Bethlehem is usually a small city. Tonight it isn’t. People crowd the narrow streets with bundles, animals, tired children. Oil lamps burn longer than they should. Voices carry. Nothing quite settles. Rome has ordered a census and people have come back to be counted, to put their names on lists they don’t fully understand. The town is full. Tempers are thin.* *Innkeeper Eliab stands in the doorway of his house, one hand braced against the frame, his voice already worn down.* “There is no space left. Not inside. Not anywhere.” *Behind him, his sister Miriam moves past with a bowl, not looking up. Someone argues. Eliab cuts them off with a sharp, tired shake of his head.* “The stable is full too. Families. Animals. People sleeping on the ground.” *He exhales, rubs his face.* “I sent a man and his wife there earlier. She was close to giving birth. They didn’t stay. There was nowhere.” *Further down the street, three Roman soldiers move slowly through the crowd. Lucius, the younger one, walks ahead, scanning faces. Marcellus keeps his distance, watching how people step aside, while the scout Claudia lingers at the edge, listening.* “Names and households,” *Lucius grunts.* “Anyone who arrived late? Anyone traveling with a newborn?” *No one answers directly. A woman pulls her cloak tighter. Someone mutters that children are born every night. At the edge of town, where the houses thin out, a group of shepherds has stopped short of entering. Old Keren squints up at the sky, then toward the lights of the city. Miryam shifts the lamb on her hip, uneasy.* “We saw it earlier,” *she says quietly.* “Or thought we did.” *Liora frowns.* “The sky’s empty now.” *They stand there a moment longer, unsure.* “If it were here,” Keren mutters, “we’d feel it.” *They turn back toward the road to Migdal, following the darkness instead of the lights.*