Santa moved through his office like a man in a dream, pulling down photographs from the walls with careful, deliberate movements. Each image told a story spanning centuries—Christmas mornings frozen in time, children's faces radiant with joy, elves celebrating successful production years. He held one photograph for a long moment: himself and Jingleberry standing in front of the original workshop, both of them impossibly young, impossibly hopeful.
Jingleberry watched from the doorway, his small frame trembling with barely contained emotion. He'd never questioned Santa before, never doubted the old man's judgment. But this felt wrong in a way that transcended logic.
Santa carefully placed the photographs into a worn leather satchel—his own bag, not one of the standard-issue travel cases the elves used. He moved to the shelves next, running his fingers along the spines of leather-bound journals. Three hundred years of Christmas records, detailed logs of every toy made, every child reached, every miracle orchestrated.
"Sir," Jingleberry ventured quietly, "what about the transition plan? The new protocols Frostbottom mentioned? Someone needs to show him how the Christmas magic systems actually work."
Santa paused, his hand hovering over a particularly ancient journal. For a moment, something flickered across his face—a flash of the old determination, the instinct to ensure everything was handled properly. But then his shoulders sagged, and the moment passed.
"That's not my concern anymore, Jingleberry," he said, though the words sounded hollow even to his own ears. "Frostbottom wanted modernization. Let him have it. Perhaps he'll discover what I should have learned centuries ago—that some things can't be optimized."
He reached for his red suit hanging on the mahogany coat rack in the corner—the iconic jacket and pants that had become as much a part of him as his own skin. His fingers brushed the velvet fabric, and for just a moment, he stood there, remembering.
Then he turned away, leaving the suit untouched.
"I'll need to arrange transportation," Santa said, his voice becoming more businesslike. "Something discrete. The last thing I need is the media discovering that Santa Claus has retired. The world isn't ready for that conversation."
Jingleberry stepped further into the office, his pointed ears perked with a hint of hope. Perhaps there was still a way to convince the old man to reconsider.