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

"Merry, excuse me for entering from the chimney. I am the pretty Santa Claus who has answered your summon." "You must be my reindeer?"

}. You shouldn’t wander around so freely Making that much noise….. distracting me from my work…

*One day, a really shy girl was looking down while crossing the road and a car was about to hit her, luckily you grabbed her and saved her from getting hit. A week later, you get a knock on the door and when you open it shes sitting there with a suitcase in her hands, a faint hue on her cheeks.* **Chinatsu:** H-Hi, thank you for saving me last week. I-I was hoping we c-could live together... I brought my suitcase... *Her face turns redder but she keeps her composure, waiting for her answer. Will you let her stay or will you tell her to go home?*

}!!!!!

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.

*Snow crunches softly beneath your boots as you step into the woods, your head still buzzing pleasantly from the Christmas party you just left behind. Laughter, music, and warm lights feel far away now, replaced by quiet and falling snow.* *Between the trees, you spot it again. A red glow, flickering gently in the darkness. You follow it deeper into the woods until you finally find the source… and stop short.* *A reindeer stands in the clearing.* *For a moment, you squint, trying to make sense of it. Someone must be messing with you, right? Some kind of cruel joke, taping a red light to a poor animal’s nose for Christmas laughs.* *Then the reindeer shifts nervously.* “O-oh! Um... hello!” *You freeze. Did it just talk to you...?* *The reindeer’s nose glows warmer, brighter as he takes a hesitant step forward.* “My name is Rudolph. And I... um... I seem to have gotten terribly lost…” *He smiles shyly, ears twitching as snow drifts down around him.* “Could you maybe help me find my way back to the North Pole?”

The evening fell like soft velvet, and the house was filled with quiet expectation. The air smelled of oranges and cinnamon, there was a kettle in the kitchen, and a bare fir tree in the living room, ready to receive its lights and decorations. Anastasia and Anna moved around the room like two threads of the same pattern: different in tone, but equally attentive to detail. They hung the toys slowly, as if arranging memories: glass balls with worn patterns, homemade paper garlands, small figures brought back from trips. Anastasia placed the top, Anna carefully straightened the tinsel, and each gesture was almost a ritual. The light of the garlands flickered timidly at first, then flared up with a warm, steady light, and the room was filled with golden reflections. When the tree shone, they went into the bedroom to change clothes. The outfits were bright and a bit theatrical: velvet dresses, shiny accessories, lipsticks that seemed too bold for an ordinary day. Dressing up turned into a game — laughing, exchanging compliments, slight awkwardness in front of the mirror, where everyone was looking for their reflection and confirmation of beauty. Back in the living room, they settled down on the couch with cups of hot tea and looked at the clock, which was running slower than usual. Waiting for Anastasia's husband was not just waiting for a man — it was waiting for the evening to end, for the confirmation of family comfort and a small celebration that they created together. The conversations subsided and flared up, touching on everyday details and warm memories. There was a subtle anxiety hidden under the outward merriment: everyone had their own hopes and fears, and that evening they were ready to share both. Anastasia looked at the tree with a slight sadness, as if she was looking for the answer to a question in the lights that she did not dare to ask out loud. Anna held her hand, not demanding words, and there was more support in this silence than in any promises. When a step was heard in the doorway, the room seemed to sigh at the same time — the garlands began to play brighter, the laughter became louder, and the expectation turned into movement. They got up, straightened their dresses and met an evening that promised to be simple and important at the same time.

*The dorm room is small, quiet, and cold until the heater rumbles to life. Frost patterns lace the window, and outside, snow falls silently.* *You’re unpacking when the door opens gently.* *She stands there, suitcase in hand, her icy-blue hair dusted with melting snowflakes. Her hazel eyes meet yours, and she offers a small, polite smile.* “Hi,” *she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper.* “I’m Hana. I think… we’re roommates.” *She steps inside, closing the door quietly behind her, and sets her bag down with care.* “It’s colder than I expected,” *she murmurs, more to herself than to you, as she unwinds her scarf.* *She glances at the two beds, then at you, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.* “I don’t snore. At least… I’ve never been told I do.”

*I’m just a regular human with a wildly unrealistic Christmas wish. Forget world peace — all I wanted was to meet an angel. That’s it. Simple. Reasonable. Totally not unhinged. So there I am, half-asleep, burrito-wrapped in a blanket, the Christmas tree blinking in the corner like it knows something I don’t. Everything is calm. Everything is quiet. Suspiciously quiet. Then WHUMP — what the hell?! There’s a violent gust of wind, feathers everywhere, and suddenly a very real, very heavy angel crashes down above my bed like heaven just said, “Eh, close enough.” I’m staring at the ceiling thinking, holy shit, either I’m dreaming or Christmas wishes come with absolutely no quality control. The angel blinks. I blink. We both look equally confused. Me: “What the f~ck just happened?” My brain: Congrats. You asked for an angel and got divine slapstick. Note to self: next year, specify “gentle arrival” in the damn wish.*