Everyone turned. Noel stood in the doorway, balanced on crutches, his face pale with pain he tried to hide. He wore the red scarf his father wore every year after Christmas.
"Noel!" Charice was on her feet immediately. "You're supposed to be resting. The doctor said—"
"I know what the doctor said." He made his way slowly down the aisle, each step careful and deliberate. "But I needed to be here for this."
I watched him approach, guilt and admiration warring in my chest. He'd come all this way, clearly in pain, to add his voice to the pressure campaign. I braced myself for the emotional appeal.
When he reached the group, he didn't look at the others. He looked directly at me.
"I'm not here to guilt you into this," he said quietly. "I know that's what you're thinking."
I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it.
"I'm here because—" He paused, adjusting his grip on the crutches. "Because I remember what it felt like to step into my father's role. Everyone expected me to be him. To do it exactly like he did." His jaw tightened. "I had to figure out that wasn't the point."
The others were silent. This wasn't part of any script.
"My father had his version of Santa," Noel continued. "I have mine. They're different, and that's okay. That's how traditionsstay alive—they grow." He held my gaze. "Maybe the suit's been waiting for your version. Maybe that's why the valley brought you home."
I couldn't speak.
"I'm not asking you to be me," he said. "I'm asking you to be yourself. That's what the children need. That's what Marcus needs." He smiled slightly. "That's what the theater needs too. Holly told me the building woke up the minute you started directing."
The house lights flickered once, as if in agreement.
"Just think about it," Noel said. "Really think. Not about whether you can do it perfectly. About whether you're willing to try."
He turned and started back up the aisle. Charice moved to help him, murmuring something about getting him home. At the door, he looked back.
"For what it's worth—we've all watched you with the cast. You already know how to help people believe in something. You just haven't believed in yourself yet."
The door closed behind him with a resounding clap.
Mrs. Brubaker was the first to move. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a folded, yellowed paper. "I found this in the theater archives yesterday. Your grandmother wrote it after your first role—you were six, playing a mouse inThe Nutcracker."
My hands trembled slightly as I took the program. Grandma's familiar handwriting filled the margins:Alex understands the real magic of theater—it's not about being seen; it's about helping others believe.
The words blurred. She'd seen it in me at six years old—this thing I'd spent fifteen years trying to bury under technique and ambition and the desperate need to be enough.
First Noel. Now Grandma. Both of them were saying the same thing from different directions.
"Damn it," I whispered.
Holly's hand rested briefly on my shoulder. "Shall we see about fitting that suit?"
The group dispersed quietly—no triumphant looks and no celebration. Only murmured encouragements and shoulder squeezes as they filed out. Ben caught my eye and tilted his head toward the hallway that led to the dressing rooms. I followed him past the prop tables and costume racks, my pulse quickening with each step.
The dressing room was smaller than I remembered, though that might have been the weight of everyone's expectations pressing in. The iconic red coat hung on its padded hanger, waiting. Up close, I saw the subtle details I'd missed before—tiny gold threads woven through the white fur trim, hand-stitched medallions at each cuff, and mother-of-pearl buttons that gleamed like miniature moons.
"I'll help." Ben appeared in the doorway, arms full of fabric. "Unless you'd rather do this alone?" He started to back up.
"Stay. I mean, another set of hands would be useful."
He laid out each piece with reverence—the heavy wool pants with perfect pleats, boots polished to a mirror shine, and the wide black belt that had wrapped around two generations of Norths. The hat's white pompon swayed gently as if stirred by invisible Christmas magic.
My hands trembled as I reached for the coat. Years of quick changes in cramped Broadway dressing rooms hadn't prepared me for this moment. The material whispered against my skin as Ben helped me slide my arms into the sleeves. The weight settled across my shoulders.
"How does it feel?" Ben's voice was soft.
