Santa remained motionless in his chair long after the screen went dark. The office around him—decorated with hand-carved ornaments from centuries past, shelves lined with letters from grateful children, walls adorned with photographs of Christmas mornings spanning generations—suddenly felt like a museum of someone else's life.
He sat there for what might have been minutes or hours. Time had lost meaning. His hand trembled as he reached for the mug of hot cocoa on his desk, now lukewarm and uninviting. Even that seemed to mock him.
A soft knock interrupted his paralysis. Jingleberry appeared in the doorway, his pointed ears drooping with concern. The elf had been Santa's right hand for over a century, and he could read his boss's face like a Nice List.
"The call," Jingleberry said quietly, stepping inside. "We heard it upstairs. Is it... is it true?"
Santa couldn't bring himself to say the words aloud. He simply nodded.
Jingleberry's face crumpled. "But sir, Christmas needs you. The workshops need you. We need—"
"I know," Santa interrupted gently, though his voice carried an exhaustion that ran deeper than any single day's work. He stood slowly, his joints protesting with the weight of centuries. "I know, Jingleberry. But maybe... maybe that's the problem."
The elf's confusion was evident, but Santa found he didn't have the energy to explain. How could he articulate the bone-deep weariness that had been accumulating for decades? The constant pressure, the impossible expectations, the endless responsibility that came with being the beating heart of Christmas itself?
For the first time in three hundred years, Santa Claus wondered what it might feel like to simply... stop.
"Pack my things," Santa said finally, moving toward the window that overlooked the North Pole's glittering workshop. "All of it. I won't be needing the red suit anymore."
Jingleberry stood frozen, unable to process what he was hearing.
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