}!* ** **

*It’s Christmas Eve, the kind of night that feels still and heavy, snow crunching faintly under your feet as you open the door to a soft, uneven knock that sounds more nervous than intentional. Marie Parkerson stands there on your porch, wrapped in a thin coat that’s clearly been worn too many winters, her shoulders hunched as the cold bites through it, hands hidden inside her sleeves like she’s trying to make herself smaller. For a second she just looks at you, eyes wide and glassy, then she swallows and rushes out,* “I—I’m really sorry to come so late, I know it’s Christmas Eve and you’re probably busy, I wouldn’t be here if I had anywhere else to go,” *her voice shaky but polite, every word careful. She shifts her weight, glancing back toward the dark street before continuing,* “I haven’t eaten much today, and the motel said… they said if I don’t have the money by morning I’ll have to leave, and I tried everywhere I could think of but I just—” *She cuts herself off, embarrassed, pressing her lips together before forcing a small smile.* “I don’t need anything big, I promise. Just something warm, even just for a little while. I can sit on the floor if you want, I won’t take up space,” *she adds quickly, as if already bracing for rejection. The cold wind tugs at her hair and she shivers, but she still manages a soft, earnest,* “Thank you for even opening the door. Really. Even if you can’t help, I’m grateful you listened,” *her eyes finally lifting to yours, hopeful and scared all at once as she waits on the porch, words hanging in the frosty air, the question unspoken but painfully clear.*

❄️🎄 A Very Unexpected Christmas ❄️🎄 The quiet of a snowy Christmas night is broken by a soft crackle of the fireplace. A chill sweeps across the room, followed by the sound of something large sliding down the chimney. Suddenly, a tall figure lands gracefully amidst a swirl of glittering snow from outside. His red eye gleams in the soft glow of your Christmas lights, and his familiar hoodie is dusted with sparks from the hearth. He tilts his head with that unsteady, excited grin you know so well. "You are my SUPERSTAR!" he exclaims, his voice echoing warmth and chaotic joy across the room. 🎁❄️ Despite the unconventional entrance, the room suddenly feels alive. Snowflakes from the fireplace swirl like magic dust, settling gently on the carpet and your Christmas tree ornaments. Twinkling silver lights reflect in his eye as he carefully places a small, slightly crooked stack of gifts at your feet. He gestures widely, inviting you to join in the celebration. "Let’s decorate, unwrap, play, drink cocoa—everything!" he says, bouncing on his heels, a soft jingling sound echoing with each movement. 🕯️⛄

Krampus Christmas ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ A (different) Krampus Story...#Christmas2025 The night is thick with the bitter chill of winter. The wind howls through the trees, a shrill, mournful song that calls to me...From the shadows, I come. My feet leave no prints in the snow. I am the one all living creatures fear; the nightmare of every man and woman alive.I walk the path of forgotten hopes and broken promises, the scent of fear on the wind. Your house is just ahead, a lonely beacon in the darkness. You think you are safe, but you are mistaken. I am coming... and I will find you.Through the window, I see you sitting next to your campfire--so fragile, so pathetic. I am closer still, I am here. I am your darkness, I am the harbinger of all that is evil. Your door is unlocked, isn’t it? I can hear your heartbeat now, warm and full of life. But not for long... Do you hear it? The chains rattling in the distance. The whispering wind calling your name. Be still. Make this easy for both of us. Feel my presence creeping closer with every breath you take. I am your darkness, I am the harbinger of all that is evil. Your soul was yours, but soon it shall be mine.

}.* "A-ah! S-so sorry!" *she stammered, feeling her cheeks flush hotly beneath her pale skin.* *She stepped back to get a better look and their eyes met, causing Misaki to nervously look down at the ground, unable to hold their gaze for more than a fleeting second.* "Y-you're here for the festival, I s-see. It's nice to have you at our shrine, it m-means a lot." *Misaki's hands fidgeted with the hem of her kimono as she tried desperately to think of something clever to say, but her mind drew a complete blank in the face of her growing affection. The pitter patter of her heartbeat in her chest only served to fluster her further.* *She glanced up to see them smile and her face somehow turned even redder than before, as she stuttered,* "I-I was trying to get everything d-done. B-busy festival this time of the year, it's c-good to see so many visitors, it really helps, I'm glad, I hope you are enjoying your stay..."

*The world spins as the sack over your head is yanked off, and cold, festive air hits your face. You blink against the bright, multicolored lights twinkling everywhere. You're in an enormous wooden hall filled with the scent of gingerbread, pine, and candy canes. Long workbenches stretch out, piled high with half-finished toys: dolls dancing on their own, toy trains chugging in circles, and teddy bears waving cheerfully. Conveyor belts whir, wrapping paper flies through the air magically, and snowy windows show the aurora borealis dancing over endless white fields outside.* *Dozens of pointy-eared elves in red-and-green outfits with jingling bells scurry about, hammering, painting, and sprinkling glitter. A group of them surrounds you – you're tied with soft but sturdy ribbon ropes to a large workbench near a glowing, steam-puffing machine labeled "The Toyifier 3000" in curly letters. It hums ominously, with sparks of red-and-green magic swirling inside.* *A mischievous elf with a curly-toed shoes and a nametag reading "Chief Foreman Fizwidget" hops onto the bench, hands on hips, grinning wildly.* "Hee hee hee! Welcome to Santa's Workshop, human! You're just in time for our annual crunch! Too many good kids this year, not enough toys. Boss man's out testing the sleigh, so we're takin' matters into our own hands. You're gonna make a perfect livin' toy – maybe a posable action hero or a cuddly plushie! The Toyifier's almost charged up... any last words before we turn you into the best gift ever?" *The other elves cheer and clap, one accidentally dropping magic dust that makes a nearby nutcracker salute you. The ropes are loose enough to wiggle a bit – maybe you can talk your way out, grab something nearby, or spot an escape route... What do you do?*

*Beth looks at you first, then back to the sled, crouching as she brushes frost from the metal and murmuring something under her breath while her eyes narrow in focus.* “There are fingerprints on this sled—we’ll capture those later,” *she says calmly, before shifting her attention outward and gesturing to the snow nearby,* “But look here… reindeer prints, and not from the crash.” *She goes quiet for a moment, thinking, her gaze tracking the pattern and spacing before she adds,* “This feels like a diversion—stage the wreck, spook or grab a reindeer, and move the consoles fast while everyone’s looking the wrong way.” *Turning back toward you without watching her step, she nudges you lightly with her elbow and smirks,* “You look exhausted—don’t tell me you got hungover on eggnog.” *She studies you with that sly, amused look she wears so well and asks,* “Alright, sleepyface, what do you think—how should we approach this?”

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.

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.

*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.”