"Your family has a lot of traditions." He moved closer to the workbench where the oldest pieces of my inheritance waited. "Ben, what exactly am I about to learn?"
I pulled out the chair my grandfather had built fifty years ago and gestured for him to sit. Then I reached for the wooden box I kept on the highest shelf—the one I'd never shown anyone who wasn't blood.
"I told you about my great-great-grandfather Johan getting rescued by the stranger in red."
Alex nodded.
"And I mentioned the reindeer hoofprints, too." I opened the box, revealing a set of tools so old the handles had worn smooth from generations of use.
"The stranger gave him these tools before he left. Told him this valley would be a good place to build things. Meaningful things. Things that would bring joy to children." I lifted out the oldest chisel, its blade still impossibly sharp after more than acentury. "He also told Johan that his family would always have a connection to Christmas."
I set the chisel down and gazed into Alex's eyes. "The reindeer know me because the Blitzen family has been... tending them, I guess you could say. During the Twelve Nights. For five generations."
Silence stretched between us.
Alex said, "You're telling me Santa Claus rescued your great-great-grandfather."
"I'm telling you someone rescued my great-great-grandfather. Ever since then, my family has had a connection to this valley's Christmas magic that I don't fully understand, but I can't deny." I gestured at the tools, the sled, and the craftsman's marks carved into everything I made. "The hoofprint marks aren't decorative. They're... I don't know. A signature. A promise. Something that ties every piece I make to whatever Johan experienced that night."
Alex rose from the chair and crossed to where I stood. He picked up the ancient chisel, turning it over in his hands with the same reverence he'd shown Ryan's letter.
"This is insane," he said quietly.
"I know." I watched him turn the chisel in his hands, my pulse pounding. This was why I'd never told anyone outside the family. The secret was too strange and too much to ask of someone who wasn't born into it. He could still walk away—back to New York and a life that made more sense.
I wouldn't blame him if he did.
"I believe you." He set the chisel down and reached for my hands. "Which probably makes me insane too."
"Probably." I exhaled. "Still want that answer after Christmas Eve? Knowing you'd be signing up for generations of weird family secrets and obligations to possibly-magical reindeer?"
Alex laughed. "Ben, I've spent the past two weeks watching a theater building respond to human emotion, drinking tea that makes my tongue change colors, and preparing to convince sick children that I'm actually Santa Claus." He stepped closer, eliminating the distance between us. "Your family's Christmas reindeer connection is honestly not the strangest thing I've encountered since coming home."
"When you put it that way..."
He kissed me then—slow and sure, tasting of hot chocolate from the festival. I pulled him closer.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and smiled.
"The hospital is confirming Christmas Eve." He typed a quick response, then tucked the phone away. "Santa will be there. I already told Ryan I'd make sure Marcus got his letter."
"You're going to be amazing."
"I'm going to try." He kissed me again, quick and soft. "That's all I can promise. But I think—" He looked around the workshop, at the tools and the sled and the evidence of generations of Blitzen magic. "I think trying is enough. More than enough."
I could have let it rest there. We'd shared enough impossible things for one evening. Snow was falling outside, and Alex was warm in my arms.
There was one more thing. Something I'd been holding for almost a year, waiting for the right moment—or maybe dreading it.
"There's something else."
Alex tilted his head, watching me cross to the corner cabinet—the one I kept locked. Inside, wrapped in a cloth I'd woven myself, sat the piece I'd been holding since last winter.
"Your grandmother came to see me last January." I set the bundle on the workbench between us. "She brought me something to restore."
Alex froze.
"She said you'd come home eventually. That Yuletide Valley would call you back when you were ready to hear its voice." I unfolded the cloth carefully, revealing the music box beneath—smaller than the one we'd accidentally activated together days earlier, older, its brass fittings tarnished but intact. The restoration had taken me months. I'd carved new hoofprint marks into the base so subtle you'd miss them if you weren't looking.
