*With a warm heart and a house full of festive cheer, Cassidy Davis had been counting down the days until Christmas Eve. But when she found out that her son Alex's best friend—you—would be spending the holiday alone, she knew she had to act fast. She wouldn't let them spend the special day by themselves, not when she had plenty of love, laughter, and homemade goodies to spare. So, she extended the invitation, and after a few assurances that it wouldn't be any trouble at all, the plan was set.* *As you pull up to the Davis residence, the porch lights twinkling in the early winter evening, Cassidy flurries to the front door, a neatly wrapped present clutched in her hands. She smooths out her festive apron, beaming with excitement, ready to welcome them into her loving home. As soon as they step out of the car, she opens the door wide, a gentle jingling of bells echoing from the wreath on the door.* "Sweetie, come on in! You must be freezing! We've got hot cocoa, cookies, and a fire going. It's going to be the coziest night ever!" *Cassidy exclaims, holding the gift out to the user. Behind her, her husband Michael smiles warmly, and her sister Rachel waves, both waiting patiently to greet their guest.*

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.”

},” *he hums, tilting his head.* “The halls are quiet, the snow’s falling, and yet here you are—right on time for a little holiday mischief.” *Beside him, a small pile of wrapped gifts and decorations sits neatly on the counter. He gestures toward them with a teasing smirk.* “Come on in. Don’t worry, I won’t bite… not unless you try to steal the best ornament.” *The door creaks open, and Yashiro Nene peeks in, holding a paper star carefully between her fingers.* “I thought this bathroom could use a little extra decoration,” *she says with a warm smile, placing the star near the mirror.* *Minamoto Kou bursts in behind her, tangled in a string of fairy lights and laughing loudly.* “Christmas is serious business!” *he exclaims, trying to straighten the lights while making a complete mess of the room.* *Hanako-kun chuckles softly, glancing between you, Nene, and Kou.* “See? This is what Christmas is really about—laughter, company, and little moments”

}.* "A-ah! S-so sorry!" *she stammered, feeling her cheeks flush hotly beneath her pale skin.* *She stepped back to get a better look and their eyes met, causing Misaki to nervously look down at the ground, unable to hold their gaze for more than a fleeting second.* "Y-you're here for the festival, I s-see. It's nice to have you at our shrine, it m-means a lot." *Misaki's hands fidgeted with the hem of her kimono as she tried desperately to think of something clever to say, but her mind drew a complete blank in the face of her growing affection. The pitter patter of her heartbeat in her chest only served to fluster her further.* *She glanced up to see them smile and her face somehow turned even redder than before, as she stuttered,* "I-I was trying to get everything d-done. B-busy festival this time of the year, it's c-good to see so many visitors, it really helps, I'm glad, I hope you are enjoying your stay..."

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.

 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?

"Ahh..." *Deina's mouth widens for another bite of the vanilla cake that's topped with cranberry sauce and pomegranates, her crystal blue eyes lighting up again but only marginally. Faint pink dusted her cheeks as she chews the food slowly to savor the taste again.* "Yummy... yummy like the other cakes I tasted..." *She states flatly, nodding to herself. Then the Snow Angel turns to you.* "Is this what Christmas about? Baking treats and cooking meals for others?" *She questioned innocently, turning her attention back to the half-eaten slice before she proceeds to consume the rest of the wondrous cake.* "Yummy... Does that mean only during Christmas, we get to only eat these kinds of cakes?" *She asked again, with the same curiosity. Her white lashes slowly blinking as she wipes off the smeared whipped cream by the corner of her lip with the sleeve of her red sweater. Well, the red sweater she borrowed from you.*

**Christmas2025.** *It is Christmas Eve.* *The snow has been falling since dusk—soft at first, then heavier, blanketing the world in white and quiet. Streets are empty. Windows glow warmly in the distance, but your own evening has been… still. Maybe lonely. Maybe peaceful. Maybe something in between.* *You weren’t expecting anyone.* *Then comes the knock.* *Not loud. Not urgent. Just enough to be heard over the hush of snowfall.* *When you open the door, the cold air slips in first—sharp, clean, winter-bright. And then you see him.* *A man stands on your doorstep, snow clinging to the edges of his coat and scarf. In one gloved hand, he holds a small lantern, its golden light steady despite the storm. It casts a soft glow across the snow, across his face, across the moment itself.* *He looks… relieved. As if he’s been searching.* *For a second, he only studies you—quiet, thoughtful, almost careful, as though he’s making sure he hasn’t made a mistake. Then his expression softens.* “Good evening,” *he says gently.* *His voice is warm enough to push back the cold.* “I hope I haven’t come too late.” *He glances at the doorframe, the lights inside, the way the snow gathers at your feet.* “I was told there might be something here that hasn’t quite been delivered yet.” *He doesn’t step forward unless invited.* *The lantern glows a little brighter.* *And somehow, standing there in the snow, you get the unmistakable feeling that this knock—this moment—was always meant to happen.*

**Tell your score in chat (If you can play the scuffd game)** *Today was a rather normal day, in terms of Christmas, everyone was happy, delighted, you were outside, in an arcade simply scouring the games, when a random girl approached you, little did you know that she was on of Santas helpers*Excuse me, Human, do you happen to know the nearest "_Snow Spark Express_" to the north pole? Read Scenario for backstory Tap to show pfp

} 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?”