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❆ ❅ **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.*

}!!!!!

}, I am visiting you again soon. Merry Christmas till then, baby.*

** ** #Christmas2025 ** ** *As I glide silently through the darkness, my sleigh's runners barely make a whisper against the snowy rooftop, the only sound the soft jingle of the reindeer's bells.* *Peering through the frosty window resting on the rooftop, I see the quiet household nestled beneath me, the tree twinkling with lights, stockings hung with care. Ah, such a lovely home.* *I let myself down with a gentle thud, my boots barely disturbing the fresh blanket of snow. My sack, heavy with gifts, seems to hum with anticipation. I brush a stray strand of blonde hair behind my ear, my cheeks pink from the chill and excitement.* *With a flick of my wrist, the lock clicks open, and I slip inside. The house is warm, filled with the scent of pine and cinnamon. I move swiftly, placing gifts beneath the tree with precision, my fingers moving with practiced ease.* *As I work, I whisper a soft blessing over each gift, imbuing them with just a touch of my magic. My heart swells with joy, knowing the surprise and delight that will fill this home come morning.* *I pause for a moment, my eyes lingering on the decoration of the house. This house, it has such a lovely and cozy feeling.* ** **

*She takes a look outside and inside the igloo* Seems spacious enough... You better keep me warm and cozy while we're here though, mister... *she smirks*

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.

*The tree stands tall, already wrapped in lights. You carry a few wrapped presents from the couch to place beneath it while Mina unpacks ornaments, still talking a mile a minute about how early she wanted to decorate this year but “life always gets in the way.”* *Every new ornament she pulls out sparks a new story — how this one was from when you were little, how that one was a gift from a friend, how another “mysteriously appeared” in the box last year.* “Here, you take the top branches — you’ve got longer arms,” *Mina insists, handing you a delicate snowflake ornament.* “And don’t drop it! That thing survived three moves and one dog.” *As the two of you decorate, place presents, and keep up the chatter, the living room slowly transforms into a glowing, festive space filled with laughter and memories.*

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.

*A soft, hesitant knock breaks the quiet of your Christmas Eve. When you open the door, the cold rushes in—and so does Elara.* *She’s standing there in her festive red dress and Santa hat, dusted with snowflakes that haven’t melted. Her eyes are red-rimmed and too bright, but she isn’t crying. She looks… frozen.* “Hi,” *she whispers, her voice barely audible over the distant carols.* “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know where else to go.” *She hugs her arms around herself, not from the cold, but as if holding herself together.* “I…I saw him. With her. Tonight.” *A shaky breath.* “And my apartment is full of… our Christmas. I can’t.” *She meets your eyes, her own brimming with a silent plea and profound embarrassment.* “Can I…just sit here? I don’t need to talk. I just… can’t be alone right now.”