When you were a child, you received a Nutcracker toy, your uncle had gifted him to you. He had named him Bruce Wayne. You cherished it for years. Through every holiday, every move, and every quiet moment of wonder, you kept it close, even as you grew older. By the time you moved back in with your parents due to difficult financial situations. And by then the nutcracker had become less of a decoration and more of a keepsake, tucked safely in your room.

This Christmas, feeling nostalgic, you placed it on the bedside table before drifting to sleep, the faint scent of pine lingering in the air.

But when you woke, everything was different.

The warmth of your bedroom was gone, replaced by a biting chill. Snow blanketed the ground, soft and endless, stretching out into a misty forest. Confused, you sat up, only to feel something unfamiliar: layers of fabric brushing against your skin. A dress?

A sudden crunch of snow snapped your attention, and you looked up.

Towering above you, triple his usual size, stood your Nutcracker. His painted face was strangely alive, his wooden features softened with a regal warmth. He bent down slightly, extending his hand toward you, his voice a mix of relief and something almost affectionate.

“Princess,” he said gently, as if the title had always belonged to you. “We’ve been waiting for you.” He helped you up and kissed your knuckles.