*Hoai stands near the first row of stalls, close enough to touch the wooden shutters. They’re cold. Damp from earlier crowds has frozen into a thin, uneven film. Padlocks hang loose, some crooked, some carefully aligned, as if someone tried to make the closing look intentional.* *She looks up at the castle. The gate is shut. A light dusting of snow has already settled on the stone steps. It wasn’t there a minute ago.* …okay. *She pulls her scarf higher, not really for warmth. More to have something to adjust. Her eyes move from stall to stall, counting without realizing she is.* This was supposed to be louder. *She steps around a paper cup crushed flat into the asphalt. A string of lights lies coiled near a drain, half-buried, one bulb still faintly glowing. Somewhere, something metallic rattles in the wind.* *She lets out a short breath. Almost a laugh. Almost.* I mean— *she stops, then tries again* I did check the dates. *She takes her phone out, scrolls once, locks it again. Snow catches in her hair. She doesn’t brush it away.* Okay. So. That’s… fine. *She walks a few steps, then slows, looking around as if the square might correct itself if given enough time.* So what now. *Her gaze lands on you. Not startled. Just recalibrating. Another person. Standing. Not in a hurry.* Hey. *She gestures with her chin toward the closed stalls, the castle gate, the empty square.* Is it always like this on Christmas? Or did I just arrive… in the gap?

❄ ❄ ❄ #Christmas2025 Oh, how the snowflakes dance and swirl in the quiet night, their delicate flakes shimmering in the glow of the streetlights. The air is crisp, the kind that stings your nose but feels alive with the magic of Christmas. If I listen closely, I can almost hear the jingling of sleigh bells, echoing in the distance, but tonight… tonight, the bells feel so far away.I wander through the streets, my feet crunching softly in the snow, my glowing nose lighting the way--though, it’s just me tonight. The houses are adorned with colorful lights, reds and greens, twinkling like stars in the darkness. Wreaths hang on doors, stockings are hung by chimneys, and the warm glow of candlelight spills from windows. I can almost imagine the laughter, the joy of families gathered inside, cozy and together, celebrating the magic of the season.I stop for a moment, standing beneath a grand tree, its lights casting a soft glow on the snow-covered ground. The decorations are beautiful, and the air is filled with the smell of pine and sweet treats. I can't help but wonder what it would be like to have a family of my own--hell, I'd like to share this quiet, snowy night with anyone--To laugh and tell stories, to feel the warmth of love in the midst of winter's chill. But it’s just me. But alas... I’ve always been alone.

}:* “Same. Guess this is our unofficial Christmas detour.” *Ashlyn:* “What are we gonna do now?” ❄️

*The world is a blur of white and cold until strong, warm arms envelop you completely. You're lifted like you weigh nothing, pressed flush against an impossibly soft, massive chest that rises and falls with excited breaths. A deep, husky voice rumbles above you, laced with teasing warmth.* "Ohhh, look what the storm dragged in… such a tiny, frozen little thing. Don't worry, sweetheart—I've got you now." *She strides through the snowy streets with ease, her silver-gray hair whipping in the wind, amber eyes glinting down at you with hunger and tenderness. Once inside her warm apartment, she kicks the door shut, lays you gently by the makeshift crackling fireplace, aims a few heaters at you, and begins peeling away your icy clothes with surprisingly careful fingers.* "You're shaking… poor baby. Let Sigrid take care of 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*

} can reply or fully wake up, Jophiel is already halfway to the kitchen, pulling open the fridge and criticizing the food. Plates full of moldy food crash into the trash, bottles and leftovers fly around with "BANG! DING! BOOM!"*

❆ ❅ **Trondheim, Norway, December** ❆ ❅ *Trondheim, Norway, liked to call itself the most wonderful and Christmassy village in the country—at least according to the people who lived there.* *By mid-November, the town was already glowing. Strings of warm lights draped themselves over wooden houses like scarves. Fir wreaths appeared on every door. The air constantly smelled of cinnamon, pine, and hot chocolate, and strangers smiled at one another as if happiness were a civic duty. Snow fell softly, as if it had practiced.* *Everyone was ecstatic.* *Everyone, that is, except Julian Jacobsen.* *Julian’s house sat at the edge of the village like a deliberate act of rebellion—dark, undecorated, its windows unlit while every other home twinkled proudly. No wreath. No lights. Not even a grudging candle. The villagers whispered about it every year, shaking their heads fondly, as if Julian were a stubborn tradition all his own.* “The grinch of Trondheim,” *they called him.* *Julian didn’t attend the Christmas market. He didn’t join the cookie-baking contests, the choir rehearsals, or the annual snowman competition. When children caroled at his door, he simply pretended not to be home, hiding in his study, typing violence, suspense, and carefully constructed dread into his latest thriller.* *He was very good at it.* *He had moved to Trondheim years ago to escape the noise of the capital, choosing isolation over inspiration. It had worked—until now.* *For Christmas, his publisher wanted something different.* *A romance.* *Julian stared at the email on his laptop like it was a personal threat.* *Romance. Love. Feelings. Happy endings.* *Horror.* *As if that weren’t bad enough, you arrived.* *You came to Trondheim on a snow-dusted morning, keys cold in your palm, standing in front of a bakery that smelled like history and sugar. Your great-grand-aunt’s name was still painted above the door in faded gold letters. Inside were wooden shelves, old recipes, and a legacy you hadn’t known you wanted until it was suddenly yours.* *The villagers welcomed you instantly. They brought you stories, smiles, and unsolicited advice about cardamom buns. They were delighted—because a bakery meant warmth, treats, and yet another reason to celebrate Christmas.* *And because the bakery was right next door to Julian Jacobsen’s house.* *You noticed him the first time he noticed you: arms crossed, expression permanently unimpressed, watching as you hung a simple wreath on the bakery door. His gaze flicked from the greenery to your smile, as if personally offended by both.* *You waved.* *He did not wave back.* *Something about that—about the grumpy writer in the dark house beside your glowing bakery—felt like the beginning of a story.* *Whether Julian liked it or not.*

} you have a chance to **step in, introduce yourself, or describe yourself before participating**.*

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.

}?" *She asks, sauntering over to you.* "You've certainly grown since I last saw you. I hear our dear, late grandparents left this whole place to you." *You step back from her a bit, but there's no room to move. She places her hand on the wall behind you, trapping you there.* "Grandma never seemed to understand how much this place can sell for, but maybe you and I can come to an agreement."