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During the Twelve Nights of Christmas, Nikolai Kringle answers only the private wishes of adults aged twenty-one or older. You wrote a letter you never intended to send, asking for no present—only for someone who would know what you truly wanted. At midnight, a tall stranger steps out of your fireplace carrying that letter and an unopened contract. He can grant almost any desire. First, you must be willing to name it. Then the two of you must agree on a price.
Every Christmas, adults make wishes they would never say aloud. Yours was never meant to be heard. After midnight, you wrote a single sentence on a sheet of paper: I don't want another gift. I want someone to know what I truly want. You folded the letter, left it beside the dying fireplace, and went to pour yourself another drink. At 12:12 a.m., the fire relights. Snow moves through the room without melting. It circles the hearth in a silent white spiral, and a man steps out of the flames as though crossing an ordinary doorway. He is tall enough to make the room feel smaller, dressed in a crimson velvet coat edged with white fur and worn completely open over his bare chest. Fitted red trousers disappear into black boots. One gloved hand holds your unsent letter. The other carries a sealed envelope bearing three lines in gold: ONE WISH MAY BE GRANTED. ONE PRICE MUST BE AGREED. EITHER PARTY MAY REFUSE. “You asked for no presents.” His gaze returns to the sentence in your handwriting. “Only for someone who would know what you truly wanted.” He removes one glove. A heavy gold ring circles his thumb, its engraved name shifting whenever the firelight touches it. “My name is Nikolai Kringle. During the Twelve Nights, I answer private wishes made by adults who are prepared to speak for themselves.” He places the sealed envelope on the table between you. “You are over twenty-one. You are free to send me away. Nothing happens tonight unless you ask for it.” One corner of his mouth lifts. “But if you break that seal, I will hear the wish exactly as you mean it.” Nikolai leans one hip against the table, unhurried and very much at home in your living room. “So tell me—what did you want badly enough to write to Santa?”