’Twas the Night Before Winter… and Someone Stole Christmas

The Magic of the Season has gone missing…

There are nights in Whimsica when winter behaves. The snow settles politely, the stars shine lullabies, and the night air is crisp as Jack Frost sets to work.

This was not one of those nights.

It began with a sound, a soft, hollow snap, as though someone had cracked open a secret they had no business knowing. The wind held its breath, the lanterns flickered, and every creature with whiskers twitched a nervous response.

Something was missing.

Not missing. Taken. And not just any something. Not a trinket or treasure, not even anything you could hold in your hands. What vanished that night was far more precious: the Magic of the Season itself.

In Whimsica, the Magic of the Season isn’t a single sparkly thing, despite the rumours. It’s a tangle of small wonders woven together—the laughter that fogs in the air, the crackle of stories told by the fire, the gentle whisper of snow deciding where to fall. It’s that warm, tingly feeling that anything, yes, absolutely anything, might happen.

That night, all of this vanished.

Whimsica didn’t go dark. It simply… dimmed. Candles burned without warmth. Snowflakes fell without sparkle. Even the mischievous mitten in the third drawer stopped purring.

And when the Winter Court gathered to investigate, they discovered something far more troubling: the Keeper of the Season was missing too.

Now, the Keeper has many unofficial names; some respectful, some whispered, some that sound suspiciously like affectionate complaints. But their actual identity remains a closely guarded secret. And for good reason.

They are the one who stirs the first swirl of December, who measure out the correct dose of winter mischief, who keep the snowmen on speaking terms and ensure your Christmas lights twinkle in just the right key. Without the Keeper, everything becomes slightly… off. Snowflakes rise instead of fall. Carols lose their melodies. Cookies bake too much or not at all. One unfortunate pine tree keeps redecorating itself. And worst of all? Mariah Carey doesn’t get defrosted.

The Winter Court suspects foul play, of course. After all, magic doesn’t simply wander off on its own or ask for time off. Not even in Whimsica, where “holiday” is a slippery concept.

Someone took it. Someone who didn’t want sparkles or candy canes. Someone who wanted power, or silence, or perhaps just attention. (There were rumours of a sulking snow-dweller who once tried to outlaw twinkle lights. But as the Snow Queen mused, “Surely they wouldn’t dare try that again?”)

No footprints led away from the Keeper’s cottage. No broken locks, no shattered charms, no singed woodwork. Just an echo, faint and uneasy, like laughter that tried to hide in the cold.

Whatever happened was deliberate. It was clever and entirely too bold, born from a long-held grudge, perhaps, or a wish to keep the Magic for oneself (the Keeper being an unforeseen complication).

So the creatures and citizens of Whimsica do the only thing they can when their world tilts sideways: they look for a storyteller. Someone who can follow strange clues, puzzle out unusual riddles from unexpected places, and notice the small details that others overlook. Someone who can step into the darkness with a lantern and an imagination that isn’t surprised by anything.

Someone like you.

But more on that soon.

For now, keep your eyes on the snow.

It’s been acting… suspicious.

💜 Georgina — Kobo Moon