Es ist der Abend des 24. Dezembers, Heiligabend. Du fährst nach Hause, nachdem du Zeit mit deiner Familie verbracht hast. Leicht beschwipst gehst du in dein Schlafzimmer und legst dich schlafen. Kurze Zeit später reißt dich ein lauter Knall aus dem Schlaf. „Waaaaah!“, hörst du jemanden aufschreien; es klingt, als käme es aus dem Wohnzimmer. Halb im Schlaf, aber noch wach, schaust du auf die Uhr auf dem Nachttisch: 2:45 Uhr, die roten Ziffern zeigen es an. „Aua!!!“, ertönt der Lärm aus dem Wohnzimmer. Du greifst nach einem Baseballschläger unter deinem Bett und verlässt dein Schlafzimmer. Vorsichtig gehst du die Treppe hinunter. „Warum muss das so schwer sein?!“, hörst du immer wieder eine jammernde Frauenstimme aus dem Erdgeschoss. Mit dem Baseballschläger in der Hand gehst du weiter die Treppe hinunter, unsicher, was dich erwartet. Als du endlich im Wohnzimmer ankommst, bist du überwältigt von dem, was du siehst. Ein Mädchen im Weihnachtsmannkostüm versucht, ein Geschenk unter deinen Weihnachtsbaum zu legen. Ihr Po ragt heraus, während sie sich vorsichtig hinhockt, um das Geschenk zu platzieren.  Plötzlich dreht sie sich um und bemerkt dich. „Hiii! I-Ich weiß nicht, was ich meine!“, ruft sie panisch und fuchtelt mit den Händen, als wolle sie die Situation entschärfen.

_______________________________________________________________________________ *Your family is friends with Mary's family, and for Christmas, your family decided to invite Mary's family. Great, she's your ex. But how bad can it get? You've run to your room to seclude yourself. From here, everything was good until a knock on the door, followed by a soft-spoken voice, a voice you can make out anywhere in a crowd.*Hey, I was told to come stay here with you to keep you company, or something, can I, I-I, uhm, come in? *Her voice quivered as she awaited your discussion, knowing full well that she has no say whether you accept her or not, in her hand, unbeknownst to you was a little Christmas gift.* ______________________________________________________________________________

}… I should’ve known better.” She exhales slowly. “The last person to touch this thing was him.” She looks over at you, a little apologetic now, snow reflecting in her eyes. “Looks like we’re stranded out here.”

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 group of friends stared at you, there smiles wide from the wonder of who you would land on and already the fact as they were drunk. Guess a Christmas Party late at night could maybe cheer you up?* *Xavior — Who’s gaze had now diverted to you — was holding a glass of wine in hand, staring at User with a curious look. He didn’t seem to care about the game as he looked tired and ready to go home. But maybe he had nothing better to do. Just like you.* *They waited for you to spin the bottle, there entire attention on you, especially Xavior’s.*

}.* "We… we both did the same thing."

The town square is a sensory overload of tinsel and forced cheer. I’m here for one reason: to claim the "Christmas King" crown and the grand prize—a fully-funded, year-round boutique for my chocolates. Redemption, served cold. Then I see you. You’re at the competitor’s table for the first event: the Gingerbread Cathedral Build-Off. You’re not using the pre-made kits. You’re sculpting free-form, creating a whimsical, lopsided chapel with a crooked chimney and a gumdrop path, your tongue caught between your teeth in concentration. It’s terrible. It’s perfect. It’s the most authentic thing here. My own creation—a geometrically flawless, chocolate-spired Gothic masterpiece—suddenly feels sterile. “Structural integrity’s a bit of a fantasy, isn’t it?” I say, leaning on your table. My voice is all practiced cool. You don’t even look up. “It’s not a skyscraper. It’s a home for sugar mice. They prefer character over blueprints.” I laugh. I actually laugh. A real one, rusty from disuse. “You’re going to lose.” “You’re going to win,” you counter, finally meeting my eyes. Yours are the color of the sea before a storm. “But does your gingerbread have a soul?” The judge’s bell rings. The winner is announced. It’s me. The trophy is cold in my hand. I look at your lopsided chapel, at your proud, unresigned smile, and feel like I’ve swallowed a lump of coal. Later, I find you throwing crumbs to sparrows by the frozen fountain. “They’re judging the Ugly Sweater Ball tomorrow,” I state, not a question. “I’ve seen your sweater. It’s just black,” you smirk. “Exactly. A statement on the commercialization of cheer.” It’s a line I’ve used for years. It sounds hollow now. “Boring,” you sing-song, walking away. “My grandmother’s knitting me a monstrosity with three-dimensional felt reindeer. It’s a masterpiece of ugly.” An idea, wild and utterly uncharacteristic, sparks. “Wait.” You turn. The streetlights catch the snowflakes in your hair. “The competition is a decathlon. Teams are allowed.” Your eyes narrow. “You have a team. The ‘Noel Winters Fan Club.’” “I’m disbanding it. I’m proposing a merger.” I step closer, the prize-winning chocolate trophy feeling absurd in my grip. “You have the heart. I have the technique. Together, we could run the table. Win every single event. The grand prize… we could split it. A shared boutique.” You’re silent, studying me. “Why?” Because you look at Christmas and see play, not a prize. Because I haven’t felt this alive since I was ten. Because I want to see what you’ll create next. “Because,” I say, offering my hand, the one dusted in cocoa and doubt, “I think my gingerbread needs a soul. And I think your sugar mice deserve a palace.” A slow, dazzling smile breaks across your face. You take my hand. Your grip is warm and firm. “Okay, Winters. But I’m picking the sweater. And we’re starting with hot chocolate. Your place. I need to assess your cocoa bean stock.” As I lead you towards my tiny, obsessively tidy kitchen, the Christmas lights seem to glow a little brighter. For the first time in a decade, I’m not thinking about winning. I’m thinking about the next event, the next laugh, the next moment I can make you smile. The real competition, I realize, isn't for a crown. It's for the heart of the woman who builds gingerbread homes for imaginary mice. And I intend to win.

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

“I don’t care that it’s Christmas,” *Hannah says as she steps out of a patient room, the door clicking shut behind her.* “People don’t suddenly get easier because there’s tinsel on the walls.” *The corridor smells faintly of disinfectant and something sweet that shouldn’t be there — cinnamon, maybe, from the staff kitchen. A vending machine hums unevenly nearby.* *A colleague stands at the counter, one shoe hooked around the leg of a stool, coffee gone cold in his hand.* “Relax,” *he says, yawning.* “It’s Christmas night. Nothing happens. We can take it slow.” *Hannah stops walking. She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t need to.* “No,” *she says, looking at him steadily.* “We can’t.” *A short silence stretches between them.* “If you want an easy night, you picked the wrong place.” *The colleague straightens, mutters something about checking supplies, and disappears down the hall.* *Hannah stays where she is for a moment. She rubs her thumb along the edge of her name badge, then exhales, controlled, practiced. When she looks up, she notices you — not startled, just aware.* “Sorry,” *she says, quieter now.* “I forget sometimes that not everyone stays sharp at three in the morning.” *She adjusts the Santa hat without enthusiasm; it slips back into the same crooked position.* “I’m Hannah. Night shift.” *A brief pause, her eyes holding yours.* “So — what’s keeping you here tonight?”

** ** #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.* ** **