Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I wanted to bring you back. But…”
“But you didn’t.” Ice crackled across the surface of a glass of water on the bedside table. “You left me out there, thinking I was some weird human who hated Christmas.”
Mom reached for my hand, and I let her take it. Her thumb resumed soothing circles against my skin. “We were advised it might take years for you to learn to use your powers, and by the time I realized you were forgetting everything, it was too late. We couldn’t bring you back even if we wanted to. And we couldn’t tell you anything. We failed you, and for that, I am so very sorry.” A teardrop finally escaped, sliding down her cheek.
I frowned, latching onto the strange phrasing. “You were advised? By who?”
Her expression shifted, a flash of something that looked like anger crossing her features before smoothing out. “Your father’s?—”
The wooden door swung open, silencing her.
A tall figure filled the doorway, broad-shouldered and commanding. He took one step forward, then stopped, as if afraid to come closer. His eyes roamed my face, searching for something.
The silence stretched between us, an invisible tether pulled taut with years of secrets. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough with emotion.
“Snowflake.”
Chapter 28
Snowflake
Iblinked up at my dad. His casual red polo shirt with the Jingle logo that I’d seen hundreds of times over video calls looked ridiculously out of place in the castle.
For a moment, I almost laughed. Then my eyes fixed on his face.
He looked... tired. So tired. The silver in his beard seemed heavier than I remembered, his eyes carrying shadows I’d never noticed before. The robust, jolly man who’d always insisted on hot chocolate and bear hugs during his brief visits to Palm Springs looked hollowed out.
He crossed the room with hesitant steps, each one seeming to take effort, like he was walking through snow rather than across polished wood. The bed dipped as he lowered himself beside me.
“Snowflake,” he repeated, the word hanging between us like a fragile ornament.
“Dad, you look exhausted.” I wasn’t about to beat around the bush. Not when so much time had been lost already.
Amusement flashed across his features. “I’ve just been staying up too late. Plus, too many cookies, not enough exercise.”
I narrowed my eyes, refusing to let him dodge. “Your magic is fading.”
Mom’s hand squeezed mine, and for a beat, silence filled the space. Then he exhaled, his broad shoulders slumping forward as if relieved of a burden they’d carried for too long.
“You always were too clever for your own good.” He ran a hand through his silver hair. “Yes… my magic has been dwindling for years.”
My throat tightened as I processed this, torn between lingering anger at everything they’d withheld from me and the unfamiliar ache of seeing his vulnerability. “How bad is it?”
He lifted his palm, and a tiny spark of red light flickered there before sputtering out. “After this Christmas, I may burn out completely.”
“But you can’t—” I stopped, not even sure what I was protesting. I barely understood any of this. “What happens if you... burn out?”
“I like to call it a Coal-25 situation.”
I frowned. “A what?”
“You know, like Catch-22, but festive.” His attempted humor fell into the growing silence between us.
I stared at him blankly.
“That’s a joke, Snowflake.” He sighed. “I suppose I’m not very funny anymore either.”
My mom made a small sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Chris, perhaps we should wait.”
