For: (your name).
From: Jack Frost.
And a tiny drawing of a snowflake beside his name to complete his signature.
The tag—made of thick eggshell-white cardstock with a border of miniscule spindles of real frost—is captivating in itself.
It’s a small, semi-rectangular package, no larger than four inches long and three inches wide. It is wrapped carefully in snow-white wrapping paper with clear snowflakes decorating it, only visible as light reflects off of them, giving them life. A silk silver ribbon snugly embraces the package, ending in a small matching bow in the upper left-hand corner.
You turn to face Jack once again.
“How did you get the wrapping paper and stuff…?” you ask, entirely curious as to how an invisible spirit of winter can get his hands on material items.
He shrugs. “Found them in places where they wouldn’t be missed, then tweaked them a bit to give them my own personal flare. I used your tape.”
So…he went dumpster diving.
“Go on, open it!” he encourages you. He moves a few of your other gifts aside to make room for himself, taking a seat closer to you.
You reach behind you and pick up the gift. It’s light and fits almost perfectly in the palm of your hand. It’s cold to the touch. You sit and admire it for a few more seconds. You’d hate to ruin such beautiful wrapping.
But you’re very curious as to what Jack got you for Christmas.
Bing Crosby’s melodic voice comes from the radio, tenderly singing “You’re All I Want for Christmas.”
You slip your finger under the ribbon, preparing to separate it from the present. You look up at Jack again.
He’s biting his bottom lip and smiling, eyes wide, hands loosely folded in his lap. He nods up and down quickly.
He’s like a kid on Christmas, waiting for someone dear to open a gift that he spent ages picking out and used all of his allowance on.
You smile and tear off the ribbon and bow. Then the paper. But you’re careful not to destroy anything—you want to preserve them as best you can. They’re just far too pretty to ruin and go forgotten in a waste bin.
You reveal a box made of snow, coated in ice. Much like your ice skates. No wonder it had felt cold when you picked it up. It even has hinges. You lift up the lid to expose its contents.
Your breath is taken from you.
On a cushion of fluffy snow lays a necklace unlike any other.
The slim chain resembles the laces on your skates. It is made of gleaming white snow, held together by a thin line of frost swirling up and around it. The frost is tinted an almost-unnoticeable light blue, inlaid with appears to be flakes of deep blue glitter here and there.
And on it hangs a snowflake.
No, not your average snowflake by far. This one is larger, roughly the same size as your thumbnail. Nor is it made of snow. Instead, it’s made of ice, glittering softly in the light of the fire’s dancing flames. It seems to shine slightly by its own internal light.
“Jack…” you manage to whisper through your awe.
“Want to put it on?” he asks, tilting his head slightly to the side, still smiling.
You nod. You carefully lift the necklace from its box, handing it to Jack, who takes it. Still sitting, you turn your back to him.
You’re sitting close enough to feel his cold body temperature emitting from him.
You see his arms reach over your shoulders, each hand pinching the opposite sides of the necklace’s chain. He brings it up, the snowflake now resting lightly on your chest. You can just feel his hands brushing up against the nape of your neck as he does the clasp, sending small chills down your spine.
You touch the snowflake with the tips of your fingers. It feels like the same small cold that you experienced when the snowflake landed on your nose just days ago.
“It won’t melt,” he tells you as he lets go, his voice gentle and low. You twist to face him. “Not as long as you believe in me.”
Your very own, truly unique, everlasting snowflake.
“But Jack…You didn’t have to…I feel horrible, I didn’t get you anything for Christmas…” you trail off, bowing your head.
He places the joint of his index finger under your chin, lifting your head up so your eyes meet his.
There’s that familiar cold warmth.
“It took me a little thinking,” he says, “but I figured it out. There’s only one thing I want for Christmas this year. Were you able to think, too?”
You smile slightly and give him a small nod. Your answer is reflected in your eyes.
I’m still going to go out and get you a real present, though, you think as you close your eyes. He leans in. You can just feel his icy breath upon your lips as his own get closer.
Best Christmas. Ever.
And the two of you kiss.