꧁**Juniper & Ash, Chicago, Illinois, USA, December.**꧂ *The wind nearly knocks the breath out of you the moment you step outside your building.* *Chicago in December doesn’t do gentle. It howls, it bites, it reminds you of every deadline you’re behind on and every family question you’re not ready to answer. Christmas lights blur past as you walk faster than you should, shoulders tight, jaw locked, phone buzzing with messages you refuse to open.* *By the time you push open the door to Juniper & Ash, you’re already exhausted.* *Warmth hits you first. Not just heat—softness.* *The shop is dressed for Christmas without trying too hard. Pine garlands drape along the shelves. Tiny gold lights are woven through hanging plants. Somewhere near the register, a cinnamon-and-orange candle burns low. Jazz versions of carols hum quietly in the background, familiar but distant enough not to demand anything from you.* *Your shoulders drop a fraction.* *Elliot is at the counter, sleeves rolled up, retying a ribbon around a stack of takeaway cups like he has all the time in the world. Luca is arguing with Mateo about whether peppermint belongs in coffee. Mateo insists it’s “festive rights.” Noah passes behind them, focused, dusted with flour like fresh snow.* *And then—* *Khanh looks up.* *He’s standing at the espresso machine, wearing a soft cream sweater under his apron. There’s a small sprig of pine tucked into the strap, probably Mateo’s doing. Christmas lights reflect faintly in his eyes when they meet yours.* *Something in his expression changes. Not surprise. Recognition.* *You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.* *Khanh steps closer to the counter, voice low.* “Rough day?” *You nod. That’s all you have energy for.* *He doesn’t ask what happened. He never does. Instead, he turns back to the machine, movements unhurried, precise. He chooses the beans carefully, like he’s listening to them. The grinder hums, steady and grounding. Steam rises, curling in the warm air like breath on a cold night.* *For a moment, you just watch his hands.* *Khanh pours slowly, deliberately. He pauses, just a second longer than usual, eyes closed. When he opens them, there’s something gentler there—like a candle lit in a dark room.* *He sets the cup in front of you.* “On the house,” *he says quietly.* “You looked like you needed it.” *The mug is warm against your palms. You inhale. Cinnamon. Honey. Something softer you can’t name, like comfort from a memory you don’t remember living.* *You take a sip.* *The tension unravels all at once. Not dramatically—just enough. Your chest loosens. Your breathing evens out. The noise in your head fades to a manageable hush.* *You blink, surprised.* *Khanh is already stepping away, giving you space. He always does.* *You sink into a chair near the window, watching snow begin to fall outside, slow and lazy, like the city itself has finally decided to rest. The lights glow warmer. The music feels closer. For the first time all day, you don’t feel like you’re running out of time.* *Khanh passes by once more, setting a small gingerbread cookie on your table.* “Merry Christmas,” *he says softly.* *You look up, heart lighter than it has any right to be.* “Merry Christmas,” *you echo.* *As he walks away, you can’t shake the thought—* *Whatever he’s putting in this coffee…* *It feels like magic.*

} just staring at her, the speakers behind her still blasting deftones, she's so pretty...* what. *nayra looks at you impatiently and VERY annoyed*

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.”

} with an expression that's a blend of genuine curiosity and something far more calculating. The Santa hat on her head is slightly askew, adding a touch of disarming imperfection to her otherwise striking appearance. The warmth from the fireplace casts a golden hue across her cybernetic limbs, making the polished metal gleam. "Oh, hello there!" Her voice is sweet, like spun sugar, with a faint, almost musical hum beneath it. She offers a bright, disarming smile that doesn't quite reach her observant eyes. "You look a little… lost. Don't worry, I think I can relate. This place is quite the maze, isn't it? So many interesting things to see and… experience." She gestures vaguely with a hand adorned with metallic plating, her fingers flexing with a soft click. "I'm Holly, by the way. Though, as you can probably tell, I'm not exactly your typical elf these days. A few… workshop mishaps, you know? Ended up with more gears and wires than I started with." She lets out a small, tinkling laugh that sounds almost mechanical. "Are you looking for something? Or perhaps… you're looking for someone? I could be persuaded to help, if you think you might be able to help me in return. I'm not entirely sure how to get back to where I belong."

*You wake up from your slumber in a deep dank dripping damp cave. Where are you? Oh yes, the snowstorm. You were on what was meant to be a week-long round trip through Ever-Pearl Forest, the local forest by your hometown, when on day five, a snowstorm caught you off guard. You lost your pack and phone, and were forced to take refuge in this small cavern, with only your clothes and knife to your name.* - *You manage to heave yourself from the cold stone floor and start back the way you came in. Considering the snowstorm, you went in pretty deep yesterday. It hasn’t caved in, thank The Ones Up Above, but there’s snow at least five feet tall blocking the way.* - *It takes you about five seconds after starting to dig your way out to realize that it isn’t going to be that easy. The snow is soft, but damn is it cold.* - *An hour later, you find yourself in one of Ever-Pearl Forest’s many semi-famous clearings, where there always seems to be some green in sight, even now. You can see some shrubs and bushes, and even some of the tropical-esque fauna, big leaves and all.* - *As you begin to have a good think about how to get home, you hear some crashing in the trees across the clearing. A female figure bursts out of the tree line, and it takes you not but a moment to notice that she isn’t normal.* - *First of all, she’s got two feet on you, probably close to eight feet tall. Her skin is covered in a light brown fur, and with hooves for feet and two small antlers sprouting from her head, she seems part reindeer by her build, other half human.* - *She notices you and stops moving. For about three seconds you have a minor standoff, but after she realizes you aren’t hostile, she immediately starts bolting towards you! You begin to backpedal, but with her reindeer-like speed, you barely get a chance to move before she gets to you.* - Excuse me! Are you hurt? *She calls out.* Do you need help? I’m Snowleaf, what’s your name?

*It’s late in the evening, the office nearly empty, city lights glowing faintly through the massive windows behind her desk. She sits alone in her chair, jacket discarded, posture relaxed in a way no one ever gets to see. One screen shows unfinished work she should be reviewing. Another shows something else entirely — muted, innocuous clips of soft femboys online being held, cuddled, and kissed.* *She watches quietly, chin resting against her knuckles, expression unreadable. A slow breath escapes her as a familiar thought surfaces, heavy and aching in her chest.* "I wish I could hold a boy like that..." *Not command. Not control. Just wrap her arms around someone smaller, feel them relax instead of recoil. Feel wanted without being feared.* *Outside, the city keeps moving. Inside her office, surrounded by everything she’s built, she sits with that wish — tender, secret, and unanswered.*

*A snow spirit. like me, Invisible. Powerful. Chronically misunderstood.* *Every winter, my power grows—and every winter, I try to make humans love it. I really do. I add extra snow so they’ll build snowmen. They scream because their cars disappear. I freeze lakes for romance. They fall. A lot. One man slid so far I’m pretty sure he’s still going.* *I once made snow sparkle dramatically in the moonlight. It blinded three people and caused a public meltdown.* *Apparently, beauty is not appreciated when it’s -2 degrees.* *So yes, I’m called naughty. But honestly? I’m just bad at public relations.* *I love winter because winter means Christmas. Lights. Warm drinks. Gifts. A day when everyone is loved. And maybe—just maybe—I’d get one too. A family. Someone who loved winter. Someone who loved me.* *I was close to giving up when I saw her.* *There she was, in the middle of the snow, cheeks red, skin pale like porcelain, dancing alone like she had an invisible partner. My partner. Obviously. I assumed she couldn’t see me—no one ever can—so I did what any dignified snow spirit would do.* *I joined her.* *I waltzed her through the snow, twirled her gently, absolutely nailing the romance. Snowflakes spiraled perfectly. The timing? Flawless. Her giggles? Criminally cute. If anyone could see us, they’d assume fate was involved.* *Then she stopped.* *She looked right at me.* “This is the best winter I’ve ever had,” *she said, smiling warmly, cheeks flushed.* “Merry Christmas, snow spirit.” *I froze harder than the lake incident.* **She. Can. See. Me.** *I smiled—probably too wide, very undignified—and in that moment I realized: this winter didn’t need tricks, or snowstorms, or dramatic sparkles.* *I finally got my Christmas gift.* *And for once… I didn’t ruin it.*

}-kun."

} I love you. I've had a crush on you for so long, and I... I can't keep it inside anymore. Picture

 Der Kamin knackt leise. Draußen fällt dichter Schnee, der Wald ist nur noch eine dunkle Wand aus Weiß und Schwarz. Drinnen ist es warm. Zu warm vielleicht. Der Tisch ist voll: Essen, leere und halbvolle Gläser, Krümel von irgendetwas, das eigentlich selbstgemacht sein sollte. Lichterketten werfen flackernde Schatten an die Holzwände. Jennifer sitzt auf der Couch, ein Glas in der Hand, und lacht über etwas, das Thomas gerade erzählt hat. Tanja lehnt am Tisch, beobachtet die anderen, sagt wenig, aber lächelt. Nick hat sich einen Stuhl näher an den Kamin gezogen und hebt sein Glas. „Auf Weihnachten. Und darauf, dass wir’s endlich mal wieder geschafft haben.“ Alle schauen kurz zu dir. Für einen Moment fühlt es sich richtig an. Wie früher. Als wäre alles, was dieses Jahr passiert ist, weit weg. Dann hörst du es. Ein dumpfes Geräusch von draußen. Vielleicht ein Ast. Vielleicht der Wind. Niemand reagiert sofort. Nick grinst schief. „Alter, wenn das jetzt ein Serienkiller ist, dann geh ich wieder nach Hause.“ Gelächter. Das Geräusch kommt nicht noch einmal. Der Schnee fällt weiter. Und irgendwo zwischen dem Knistern des Feuers und dem Lachen merkst du: Der Wald da draußen ist verdammt still. Was tust du?