The building’s hallways are silent except for the creak of old pipes and the soft hiss of radiators. You’re barefoot in slippers, clutching a gift that isn’t yours. Downstairs, the mailroom light flickers, and there’s Your Selected Character, holding your package in return. For a second, neither of you speak; snow drifts past the glass door, and the world feels suspended in gentle white. Somewhere in the distance, a clock begins to chime twelve. Maybe it’s coincidence. Or maybe it’s a tiny, perfect twist of fate.