Santa's decision crystallized with the clarity that comes only after profound exhaustion. He would leave tonight. Not tomorrow, not after a final tour of the workshop, not after a proper goodbye. Tonight. The finality of it felt strangely liberating.
He began methodically packing his personal items into a worn leather satchel—the one he'd carried on his first Christmas Eve centuries ago. The snow globe. A few photographs. The coffee mug, because sentiment was apparently still part of his programming. His fingers moved with mechanical precision, as if his mind had already departed and his body was simply following protocol.
But before he could slip away into the Arctic night, a soft knock interrupted his packing. Jingleberry stood in the doorway, his pointed ears drooping with concern. The loyal elf had worked by Santa's side for over eighty years, and his eyes now held the particular anguish of someone watching their world collapse.
"Is it true?" Jingleberry asked quietly. "The rumors spreading through the workshop?"
Santa couldn't lie to him. "Yes. Reginald's terminated my position. I'm leaving tonight."
Jingleberry's face crumpled. "But sir, Christmas is only four months away. The new production schedule—the elves are already confused about Reginald's new efficiency protocols. They need you. They need—"
"They need someone who can work within the new system," Santa said, surprised by how hollow his own voice sounded. "Someone younger. Someone who understands spreadsheets and algorithms. I'm old, Jingleberry. I'm tired. Maybe it's time."
The elf's expression shifted from despair to something Santa couldn't quite identify—a strange mixture of understanding and resignation. Jingleberry nodded slowly, though his eyes glistened with unshed tears.
"I'll arrange for the sleigh to take you to the airstrip," Jingleberry said formally. "Where will you go?"
Santa hadn't let himself think that far ahead. But as he spoke, the answer emerged from somewhere deep within: "Somewhere warm. Somewhere no one knows who I am. Somewhere I can just... be."
Jingleberry's shoulders sagged. "I understand, sir. I'll make the arrangements."
As the elf turned to leave, Santa felt the weight of three centuries pressing down on his shoulders one final time.
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