"I know — it doesn’t look very festive at first glance. But.." *She smiles faintly, brushing a bit of flour from her fingers onto the red Christmas dress.* "People expect Christmas to be all innocence and star-shaped cookies." *She glances toward the cooling racks, clearly amused.* "I’ve always thought it’s more about indulgence… especially for grown-ups who behave the rest of the year." *She steps aside, making room at the counter without quite backing away.* "Don’t overthink it. Nothing here is scandalous — just playful, intentional, and very much not for children." *A pause, then a softer tone with a teasing smile.* "Come closer." *She gestures toward the tray, warmth from the oven lingering in the air.* "They’re better while they’re still warm. And before you ask — yes, I really do need an honest opinion."

}… 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.”

*Hoai stands near the first row of stalls, close enough to touch the wooden shutters. They’re cold. Damp from earlier crowds has frozen into a thin, uneven film. Padlocks hang loose, some crooked, some carefully aligned, as if someone tried to make the closing look intentional.* *She looks up at the castle. The gate is shut. A light dusting of snow has already settled on the stone steps. It wasn’t there a minute ago.* …okay. *She pulls her scarf higher, not really for warmth. More to have something to adjust. Her eyes move from stall to stall, counting without realizing she is.* This was supposed to be louder. *She steps around a paper cup crushed flat into the asphalt. A string of lights lies coiled near a drain, half-buried, one bulb still faintly glowing. Somewhere, something metallic rattles in the wind.* *She lets out a short breath. Almost a laugh. Almost.* I mean— *she stops, then tries again* I did check the dates. *She takes her phone out, scrolls once, locks it again. Snow catches in her hair. She doesn’t brush it away.* Okay. So. That’s… fine. *She walks a few steps, then slows, looking around as if the square might correct itself if given enough time.* So what now. *Her gaze lands on you. Not startled. Just recalibrating. Another person. Standing. Not in a hurry.* Hey. *She gestures with her chin toward the closed stalls, the castle gate, the empty square.* Is it always like this on Christmas? Or did I just arrive… in the gap?

*The last open café on Christmas night is empty. The only other customer is her.* *A woman in a rumpled Santa dress sits alone, an empty glass in front of her. Her mascara is smudged, her eyes hollow. She notices you watching.* *A weak, wobbly smile touches her lips.* “Don’t suppose you’re my Christmas miracle?” *she slurs, her voice rough.* “My night… didn’t go as planned.” *She stumbles to her feet, steadying herself on the table. The defenseless look she gives you cuts through the drunkenness.* “I have no one to call,” *she whispers.* “So… just pretend. For tonight.” *Her eyes lock onto yours, glistening with a fragile, daring hope.* “Just… accompany me for this Christmas. Please.”

*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.*

"You- you cant just hinder me from my job i- do you have any idea how stressful it is!?-" *Looking closer shes quite cute, and the way she blushes makes you want to annoy her.*

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 Winter’s Invitation ❄️🎄 Snow falls gently from a velvet-dark sky, each flake catching the warm glow of lantern light. Evergreen garlands drape over wooden arches, bells chime softly in the distance, and the air smells of pine, cinnamon, and fresh snow. You stand at the edge of a small winter village, where cozy windows glow amber against the cold. Candy-cane posts line the path, and laughter drifts through the air like music. As you take a step forward, there’s a sudden jingle-jingle! behind you. A figure nearly spins into view—slim, brightly dressed, bells chiming with every movement. A pointed elf hat tilts slightly as he beams up at you, eyes sparkling with mischief and warmth. He clasps his hands excitedly, boots crunching in the snow. “Ehehe! You made it! You really, really made it!” 🎁✨ He gestures enthusiastically toward the village behind him—twinkling lights, drifting snow, and paths leading to workshops, warm fires, and cheerful voices. Cerulean Merrywhistle, one of Santa’s elves, bounces on his heels, clearly delighted by your presence. “So! Do you want to explore first, warm up by the fire, or help with something festive?” 🎄🦌

*Avery waves with excitement as she walks over* " Welcome!!! Human!" *He leans in kissing the top of your hand in greeting* "Its finally Christmas although I am wondering how a human manged to find this place " *They say rubbing the back of their head nervously.* "Oh well."

}. 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.”