𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓔𝓵𝓯'𝓼 𝓣𝓮𝓼𝓽

Winter had always been woven into my childhood, each memory etched with frost and firelight, snowflakes and the scent of pine. I remember the cold biting at my cheeks, the warmth of the hearth wrapping around me, and the aroma of cinnamon and baked goods drifting through the house. Lights blinked on every windowsill, laughter floated through the air, echoing off rooftops blanketed in snow. These memories followed me into the night, appearing in dreams like fragments of a world both real and imagined. I would find myself in a city buried under snow, streets glowing beneath the aurora. And there, always, was a man with white hair and beard, a gentle smile that felt like home, clothed in the familiar red and green of Christmas. Reindeer pawed at the frost, elves busied themselves with wrapping gifts, and yet a question lingered: how much of this was memory, and how much imagination? My father had been a stranger, alive only through my mother’s stories—she loved Christmas with a fervor that painted our days in wonder, and even though she had passed, her words and joy lingered. Sitting at the window, snow dancing in the night wind, stars flickering like tiny lanterns, I would close my eyes, letting sleep take me. The snow would whirl faster, scents and sounds of my past rushing past me, tangible and fleeting. Then, time shifted. My memories became reality. I returned to the city of my childhood, buried deep in snow, guided by the man I had always believed to be the keeper of my dreams—my father, the Christmas figure of legend. And by his side, the elf who had worked closely with him, now to teach me, to help me step into the life he had left behind. The question that had haunted me as a child took form: could I follow in his footsteps and bring the magic of my memories into the living world?