"The beginning works." I take a sip of water because my throat feels tight. "Though right now, I'll settle for anything that makes sense."
"Right." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Samantha, I'm not... what I appear to be."
"Oh, that’s helpful. Real specific." The sarcasm slips out sharper than I mean. But I’m tired. Not just regular tired. Eight months tired. Tired of being scared, tired of being alone, tired of whatever cosmic joke landed me here in the first place.
A tear escapes before I can stop it, all that frustration and exhaustion boiling over at once. I swipe it away, annoyed at how fast my composure crumples.
Nick moves faster than should be possible, kneeling in front of me. His thumb catches the tear before I can, brushing it away with a gentleness that makes my chest ache.
"Don't," I whisper, but I don't pull away.
"I'm sorry." His hand drops, but his eyes stay on mine. "I'm going to explain. I promise. But you have to understand, this is going to sound impossible."
"Try me. I've had a pretty impossible eight months."
He takes a breath, and I watch something shift in his expression. Decision, maybe. Or resignation.
"I'm the physical embodiment of the spirit of Christmas," he says slowly. "What some would call Santa Claus."
The silence is so thick I can hear the fridge humming in the kitchen.
I laugh. It bursts out, sharp and a little too close to hysterical. My brain scrambles to keep up with fear and disbelief. "You’re joking," I manage.
"I'm not."
"Nick, I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but?—"
The temperature in the room drops. Not gradually, but all at once, like someone opened a door to winter itself. My breath fogs in front of my face, and I watch in stunned silence as snowflakes begin to fall from my ceiling.
Actual snowflakes.
Falling. Inside my apartment.
They drift down, lazy and perfect, catching the lamplight. One lands on my hand, cold, wet, and absolutely, impossibly real.
"What..." I whisper, unable to finish the sentence.
Nick holds out his hand, palm up, and a candy cane appears. Just materializes out of thin air, red and white stripes gleaming. He offers it to me, and I take it on autopilot. The plastic crinkles under my fingers, solid and real.
"That’s not..." I start, but something in the corner of the living room catches my eye.
Where there was nothing a moment ago, there's now a Christmas tree. A real one, full and green and perfect, decorated with lights and ornaments that shimmer in colors I don't have names for. Presents sit beneath it, wrapped in paper that seems to glow.
The baby goes wild, tumbling and kicking like she’s got front row seats to the show.
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. My thoughts ping-pong between awe and terror. All I can do is stare at the tree that definitely wasn’t there a minute ago.
Nick watches me, patient and careful, like he's waiting for me to either accept this or lose my mind completely.
"This is..." I shake my head, trying to make my brain work. "This isn't possible."
"It is." His voice is quiet. "I'm sorry it took me this long to show you."
Something drags me to my feet, and I shuffle over to the tree on legs that don’t feel like mine. The presents glint up at me, and one jumps out, purple paper, silver stars, a bow the exact shade my mom always used.
I kneel, awkward and heavy, and pull it toward me. My hands shake as I tear the paper.
Inside is a dollhouse. Not just any dollhouse.Thedollhouse. The one I circled in the catalog when I was seven, the one I left notes about, the one I asked for every single Christmas until I was old enough to realize my mom couldn't afford it and stopped asking.
