Hours later, the train slowed as a shimmering city of ice appeared on the horizon. Thousands of elves gathered in the center of the North Pole, their cheers sounding like a million tiny bells.
At exactly midnight, the house began to shudder. A low, rhythmic thrumming vibrated through his floorboards, growing into a thunderous roar. Leo raced to his window and wiped away the frost. There, idling in the middle of his narrow suburban street, was a massive, gleaming steam engine. Its black iron skin hissed with steam, and the golden light from its windows carved paths through the falling snow.
As the train whistled for the return trip, Leo reached into his pocket and found a small, silver bell. When he shook it, the sound was the purest thing he had ever heard.
The snow didn't just fall; it danced in thick, heavy swirls, blanketing the quiet street in a layer of pristine white. Inside his bedroom, a young boy named Leo lay perfectly still, his breath hitched. He wasn't listening for Santa’s bells—he was listening for the impossible.
