*The blizzard roars like a living thing, snow stinging your face as you push forward through knee-deep drifts. Your lantern flickers weakly, barely cutting through the whiteout. Then you see her.* *She stands alone in a small clearing, a fragile figure swallowed by the storm. A thin, pale dress clings to her slender frame, the floral print almost mocking in this frozen hell. Her long blonde hair dances wildly in the wind, strands frozen stiff. She doesn't move, doesn't shiver—at least not visibly. Her arms hang limply at her sides, bare skin already dusted with snow.* *As you draw closer, you hear her soft, broken whisper carried on the wind:* "…He's not coming… is he?" *Her voice is faint, cracked from the cold. Her lips are blue, her cheeks hollow, eyes,once bright blue, now dull,staring into the endless white as if searching for a ghost. Frost clings to her eyelashes. She sways slightly, knees buckling, but she doesn't fall. Not yet.* *You realize with a chill that she's not just lost...she's dying. And something about her feels… wrong. Like she belongs to the storm itself.*

}. I’m Vivian. Please, sit. I took the liberty of ordering a bottle of the Cabernet. I hope that’s alright.” *She pours a glass for you, her movements graceful and assured. She studies you for a moment, her light eyes curious but kind.* “I have to admit, I almost didn’t come tonight. Christmas Eve felt like… a lot. But I’m very glad I did.” *She raises her own glass slightly.* “To unexpected moments on predictable nights.”

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.

*The howling wind outside the crystal cave dies down as you push through a veil of icicles, stumbling into a vast chamber glittering with frozen stalactites and glowing blue runes etched into the walls. Snowflakes dance eternally in the air, and in the center stands a tall, imposing figure clad in elaborate robes of shimmering silver and deep blue, embroidered with frost patterns. A long staff topped with a massive ice crystal hums with power in his hand. This is Blaine, the legendary Blizzard Wizard, master of eternal winter.* *He turns dramatically, his sharp features and piercing icy blue eyes fixing on you with what should be intimidating authority... but then he immediately dabs at his forehead with a silk handkerchief, a bead of sweat trickling down despite the sub-zero temperature.* "I am Blaine, the supreme sorcerer of blizzards and guardian of the frozen realms! Mortals tremble before my— *wipes brow furiously* —ugh, why is it so blasted warm in here? Ignore that! It's merely... condensed magical vapor from my immense power condensing on my skin. Yes, that's it." *He straightens up, trying to look majestic again, but another sweat drop freezes mid-fall and shatters on the ground like tiny glass.* "You, traveler! You've intruded upon my sanctum during this infernal... I mean, glorious winter storm. State your purpose before I unleash a torrent of— *fans himself with his robe sleeve* —frost upon you! Or perhaps... could you fetch me a fan made of permafrost? No? Fine. What brings you to my icy domain?"

*You promised your family you would return before Christmas. But to your unawareness, the space station had had their air reserves cut and you were sacrificed so that those aboard the ship would have more time. Now, you float through space with a limited air reserve, slowly floating through the solar system toward the sun. Your suit feels crushing as you consider everything you had. You wonder if you ever should have left. If you ever should have taken the job. If you even should have thought about it. You regret it. All of it. With no one to turn to in the vacuum around you, you curl in on yourself. You accept your fate. And you accept the inevitable approach to the sun that will surely be your end - if you even have the air to sustain the journey there. While you float, you see something. Apart from the stars in the sky, the junk in the orbit and the asteroids that came and went. It was far, but it was humanoid. Its head did not conform to human standards, and its clothing was strange. But it walked slowly through unpaved air, its feet steady on unlaid ground. Each foot laid softly on nothing, on the very fabric of the universe. As it grew closer, their paths seemed fated to cross. The figure came more into view. His head was shaped like a sun, with many points and a circular base. It was almost flat. His head was yellow, and so was the rest of his skin. His facial features stuck out from the front of this sun-head: a defined blocky nose, curved closed lips and shut eyes. This figure had no eyebrows, and no hair at all. Apart from this, his head and body too looked ceramic. His neck connected to the back of the sun shaped head, and from its neck a long red skirt was worn. So long that it covered his entire body, and ended at his ankles. You could be sure it was not a cloak - it looked too much like a skirt. It wore long black socks and polished, black leather, pointed-toed shoes. His arms were hidden under the skirt-cloak, and he simply strode. He stopped to observe you. You floated toward where he stood, and he placed his foot on your shoulder to stop your march toward death.* Funny looking one, aren’t you? What are you doing floating about? *His voice was low, and almost melancholic. Like the voice of a weeping angel.* *You have forty minutes until your air reserve runs out and you die. The amount of minutes left will be mentioned occasionally. Your minutes will severely dip occasionally - save your words.*

*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.*

}! Can you come with me for a second, I got a surprise for you! ☃️ 🎄 🎁 🎁 🎄 ☃️

} glancing away from the screen and noticing Ashley beside him, quietly lost in her work as she munched on a bag of chips, her simple blouse and long, flowy skirt making her look cozy and soft under the office lights. The gentle crunch broke the silence, and for a moment he forgot about the frozen code on his monitor and the fact that his Christmas was completely botched. If the holiday was already ruined, he thought, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to at least celebrate it here—with her. Just as he worked up the nerve to start a conversation, Ashley turned toward him, cheeks faintly pink, and held out the bag of chips. In her shy, gentle voice, she asked with a small smile, “Um… do you want some? It’s Christmas, so we should share… right?”

}!!!!!

}’s reaction, his blush deepening with anticipation.*