Santa moved through his office like a man in a dream, gathering the remnants of his life's work into cardboard boxes that seemed far too small for the weight of what they contained. The first box held his personal effects—a snow globe from 1823, photographs of elves spanning centuries, a letter from a child in 1952 who'd asked if reindeer got tired. His hands trembled slightly as he packed each item.
The second box was harder. His leather-bound Christmas ledgers, the original Nice List written in his own handwriting, sketches of sleigh designs that had evolved over generations. These were more than memories; they were the institutional knowledge of Christmas itself. He hesitated before sealing that box, wondering if he should leave them for whoever came next.
But no. If Reginald wanted modernization, let him discover it himself.
As Santa worked, the Workshop sounds filtered through his office—the familiar rhythm of toy production, the distant laughter of elves, the hum of magic that had powered Christmas for so long. It all seemed to belong to someone else now. A different Santa. A younger one who still believed.
He found himself at his desk, staring at the leather chair that had cradled his frame through centuries of Christmas planning. His fingers traced the worn armrests, feeling the grooves worn by his own hands. Three hundred years. The realization hit him not as tragedy but as relief. Relief that the weight might finally be set down.
By evening, his office was nearly bare. The boxes sat stacked by the door like tombstones. Santa took one last look around the space that had been his command center, his sanctuary, his entire world. The office lights reflected off the empty shelves, and for the first time in three centuries, Santa Claus felt genuinely, profoundly free.
He picked up the final box and walked toward the door, not looking back. The North Pole was someone else's problem now.
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