The Ruins looked dull today, all cracks and forgotten carvings. So I decided to give them a holiday gift—something bright enough to make even the shadows gossip.

I gathered shards of old tiles: blues like twilight, reds like sunrise, whites that still remembered the moon. I pressed them into a pattern across the broken floor until they fit, not perfectly, but proudly.

When night arrived, the moonlight poured through a missing wall and hit my new mosaic. It gleamed like the floor had caught a piece of the sky. The Ruins hummed, pleased with themselves.

I bowed, whiskers high. “See?” I told them. “You were never broken. Just waiting for a better arrangement.” Even old places like to feel useful again.

I woke up to snow frosting every fern and stump. I scooped a pawful and squinted. “Now who made all this?” I asked the forest. Nobody answered, which meant I had to investigate.

I checked the sky—too high. The creek—too cold. The squirrels—too busy pelting each other with it to explain. Finally, I decided to make my own batch. I mixed crushed pine needles, moss, and a handful of sparkle dust from a spiderweb. It didn’t work, but it smelled amazing.

Then a single snowflake landed on my nose and melted into a perfect laugh. Maybe that’s the secret ingredient—wonder. I grinned. Some recipes aren’t meant to be copied, just enjoyed.

The Lake loves reflection, so I gave it some new ones. I cut long ribbons from rivergrass and tied them to driftwood, each one for a friend. When I dropped them into the water, the current carried them in slow, looping circles.

Some ribbons flashed silver under moonlight; others looked green as pine. Each one shimmered its own story. The ripples carried the colors across the Lake until they touched every corner. A kind of quiet greeting.

When the wind picked up, the ribbons danced and crossed paths. They looked like they were waving to each other. Maybe they were.

I whispered, “For all who can’t be here.” The Lake whispered back with a ripple that felt like a hug.

The Shadows love surprises. So do I. But this year, I wanted my gift to be something special—something that didn’t need paper or ribbon. That’s when I thought of laughter.

I hid it carefully: a giggle behind the curtain, a snort tucked inside an old boot, a full belly-laugh under the bed. When the night grew quiet, the Shadows started finding them. Every snicker that echoed made another one pop open somewhere else. Soon the whole corridor was shaking with joy.

When they finally stopped giggling, I heard one whisper, “Best gift ever.” I grinned. No box could’ve held it better.

I left one last laugh wrapped tight for tomorrow. It’s good to keep a little mischief for next time.

Down here, gratitude isn’t words—it’s a steady pulse. The Trench glows in tiny sparks—fish, vents, dreams—all sharing the same rhythm. I drift through them, counting heartbeats that don’t belong to me but somehow include me anyway.

I pass a coral archway and bow, just because. The sea bows back in bubbles. Fair trade.

Above, the surface churns with noise. Down here, we thank each other by moving together. Even the current remembers to loop back and touch every rock before it leaves.

When the hum quiets, I hover in the middle of it all and smile. The deep says thank you by keeping you close.

The Heights feel heavier now that winter waits below. Each breath works a bit harder, so each one matters. I stretch my wings and taste the cold air—it tastes like promise.

I patrol the ridge, claws clicking on rock, listening for trouble that never comes. Being ready is my way to say thanks. The Peaks trust me to keep them safe, and that trust warms more than any fire.

Down in the valley, lanterns flicker like little stars that forgot to rise. I guard them from afar, a quiet flame keeping watch over smaller ones.

Gratitude isn’t always soft. Sometimes it’s the steady feeling that you did your job—and even the wind knows it.

I swam beneath a carpet of drifting gold. Leaves spun slow, soft, deliberate—each surrendering to the water with grace. I tried to catch one but missed on purpose. Gratitude feels better when it moves freely.

The Lake keeps everything, but gently. It tucks memories under ripples until they sparkle instead of sink. I thanked the surface for its honesty—how it shows the sky’s face and still keeps its own.

When evening cooled the shore, I surfaced and watched mist rise in thin curls. They looked like sighs too shy to be heard. I whispered mine anyway: a thank‑you to the season for teaching patience through change.

The leaves will settle by morning. The Lake will keep them. I will keep the lesson.

The Ruins keep secrets, but I’m learning to leave my own. This morning I found a patch of sunlight caught in a jar shard. It winked at me, bold as a jewel. I tucked it into a crack in the wall—just a little gift for whoever finds it next.

After that, I dusted off an old statue until its smile came back. “You’re welcome,” I told it. Queens believe in good manners. The pigeons approved with applause that sounded like feathers clapping.

By midday, the stones glowed warm enough to nap on. I stretched, tail flicking, and thought about how light likes to travel but also loves to rest. We’re the same that way.

When the sun dipped low, I whispered, “Stay a while.” The shard caught one last sparkle before the shadows closed in. Real thanks doesn’t grab—it just holds on kindly.

The Graveyard is quiet again, but not empty. Wax pools around candle stubs, and the air smells like sugar and smoke. I tap my drum once—soft, slow—so the night knows I’m saying thanks.

The marigolds tilt toward the dawn, their petals sleepy from dancing all week. I whisper, “Rest, amigos. You earned it.” Their color lingers on my fingers like paint that refuses to fade.

I stack the dishes, fold the bright cloths, and laugh when the wind steals one ribbon just to play. Gratitude isn’t about endings; it’s about light that stays. Every glow that remains reminds us who we celebrated for—and why we’ll do it again.

I hum as I walk home, the last candle flickering behind me. Still burning, still thankful.

The first true snow fell last night. It muffled the Hollow until only heartbeats dared to make noise. I walked through the hush, careful not to break it. Gratitude feels fragile in cold air, but it’s tougher than it looks.

I touched a branch glazed in ice. It didn’t snap—it sang, a tiny crystal note. The sound surprised me into smiling. Even cold can be kind if you stop bracing against it.

I’m thankful for that lesson. For the wind that nudges but doesn’t bite. For the path that remembers my steps even when I try to tread lightly. For hunger that reminds me I’m still alive enough to feel.

When I reached the ridge, dawn spilled pale gold across the frost. I breathed it in. The Hollow stayed silent, but I swear it nodded. Gratitude doesn’t need words—it just needs warmth that knows how to wait.