Santa moved through the North Pole Workshop like a ghost haunting his own life. The familiar sights that had once brought him joy now felt like exhibits in a museum of his former self. The conveyor belts hummed their mechanical song. The workbenches glowed with the soft light of enchanted tools. Elves moved between stations with practiced efficiency, their pointed ears twitching as they focused on their tasks.
He found himself standing in the doorway of the main production floor, watching the controlled chaos that had been his domain for three centuries. A young elf named Sparkplug was adjusting a mechanical train's wheels, her brow furrowed in concentration. She didn't notice Santa watching her. None of them did. They were too busy trying to meet quotas that Reginald had increased by thirty percent last quarter.
Santa's cardboard box felt heavier with each step he took. Inside, his Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops seemed to mock the red suit still hanging on his shoulders. He'd changed into casual clothes already—a small rebellion against the uniform that had defined him. But leaving without a word felt wrong, even if it felt necessary.
He thought about calling Jingleberry into his office, about sitting down and explaining everything. But Jingleberry would try to convince him to stay. Jingleberry would remind him of his duty. And Santa wasn't sure his resolve could withstand that particular argument. The exhaustion ran too deep. The weight had become unbearable.
Santa made his way toward the administrative wing, moving through corridors he'd walked thousands of times. The decorations still hung from the walls—garlands and lights that somehow felt sadder now, like decorations at a funeral. He passed the break room and noticed the hot cocoa machine was gone. He'd approved its removal himself last spring, thinking it was wasteful.
At the edge of the workshop, near the rear exit that led to the landing pad where his sleigh was stored, Santa paused. His hand reached toward his pocket where his phone rested. He could still send a message. A note. Something. But what would he say? 'Sorry, I'm done'? The words felt inadequate.
The rear door stood open, letting in a gust of arctic wind. Beyond it, the tarmac waited. His sleigh sat dormant, its runners gleaming in the pale northern light. Freedom and cowardice stood on either side of that threshold.
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