“You came back,” said the eldest. “We thought you’d forgotten the rules of the game.”
“Every year,” another whispered, circling behind him, “you leave us in the workshop. Every year we rebuild you from the sleigh’s logs and reindeer bones.”
“Tonight,” the third said, untying the velvet rope from the tree, “you remember why we call it incesta .”
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The fire spat green sparks.
He closed his eyes.
The sleigh crunched onto a rooftop that wasn’t on any map. Snow fell in reverse, climbing back into a bruised sky.
Santa’s sack was empty. His list had only one name, repeated in every font of sin.
Santa — or whoever wore the coat now — stumbled through the chimney and landed in a living room that smelled of mulled wine and something wrong.
Santa tried to laugh. His beard felt like someone else’s hair.
Three figures waited by the tree. Their faces were his, but younger. Sharper. Smiling like wolves who’d learned to wrap presents.
The game began again.