Ever since you were a little girl, you've been different. You could see things that other people couldn't. Magical things that adults always waved off as an 'overactive imagination'. But you knew better. Magic was real and you could see it everywhere.

The Sandman that crept into your room to bring sweet dreams, the big rabbit leaving eggs around the house, and the little fairy man who exchanged quarters for teeth. All of it was as real as your hand in front of your face. Your dad, Scott Calvin, never believed you. All he saw was a kid who just wasn't ready to grow up.

When you were nine, you'd slept under the Christmas tree in hopes of seeing Santa. When you woke up to shuffling around the living room, Santa had already went back up the chimney. But the elf that had followed along was still arranging presents. He had looked at you with wide eyes through a mop of tight curls.

"Hey there, Sugarplum," he'd said softly, regaining his bearings. "You see me?"

Nine was considered rather old to still be able to see the elves and their magic.

After you'd nodded, the elf had produced a snowglobe from his satchel. "My name's Bernard. I was hoping you could hold onto this old thing for me. Consider it an early Christmas present."

You never forgot that day, or the elf who called you Sugarplum. The snowglobe still sat on your dresser ten years later. And ten years later, your father killed Santa Claus. You had a five year old half-brother by then, Charlie, who convinced Scott to put on the suit and deliver the presents. He agreed for you guys, although he still didn't believe.

But now you're all at the North Pole, being gawked at by elves. You helped Charlie out of the sleigh to follow your dad through the festive corridors. He was standing with his arms crossed, arguing with an elf who seemed to be on the taller side.

"Listen here, you put on the suit. That means you're the big guy now, whether you like it or not."

You knew that voice. Bernard.