Word Count: 819

Paris dropped his purchases onto the floor upon arriving in his dorm room, releasing the many bags from the tight clutch of his hands. He’d had a successful morning of shopping, splurging on a few items he’d grown in dire need of as of late – some new snow boots for one, because hell if he was going to ruin another perfectly good pair of shoes walking in the monstrosity of ice, snow, and dirty, browning slush that had become the world outside. That the boots were exceptionally cute and warm – and that he’d managed to acquire the last pair in his size – only served to put him into an even better mood.

But there were other items that numbered his bags, and Paris set to work examining them, plopping down into his desk chair to dig through crinkling plastic and gauzy crepe paper. One object in particular drew his interest, packaged safely in a simple white box wrapped in a seasonal red bow. He found it and set it on his desk, unraveling the bow and pulling up the lid on the box to set his hands on the item, removing it so that he may look upon it unhindered.

It was a snowglobe – not an odd prize to win around this time of year, but definitely strange in its design. He’d entered the drawing on a whim. The large crowd of people vying to get their hands on one had drawn his attention faster than the advertisements outside. He’d heard about them around town, but hadn’t had any reason to see one or put his name in contention for one until that morning. It was bizarre how crazy people were going over them, like they couldn’t get enough. He had a sinking suspicion that some of the other people that made up the crowd at the store had been there once, twice, maybe three times before, and he was sure quite a few of them were already in possession of one of the snowglobes – if not more.

Paris had never seen anything like it before. They weren’t even appropriate for the season! Sure, glittering snow fluttered around on the inside when it was shaken, but the figure was completely wrong. Where he would have expected to see Santa Claus and his reindeer or a jolly snowman with a carrot for a nose, there was instead some strange woman – as far removed from Mrs. Claus as she could possibly be – clothed in white… which was another oddity about the thing. It was all so very white. No green, no red, just white.

It was almost creepy.

Confused but intrigued, Paris lifted the globe to have a better look at it. He turned it this way and that, trying to find something – anything – to reveal what the hell this thing was supposed to be, and why everyone was going bonkers over them.

In the end, he found nothing more than a tiny metal nub in the snowglobe’s base. That, at least, was familiar, and something he would have expected to see. Paris took the key between two of his fingers and quickly turned it, winding the globe until he was unable to turn it further. He set it back down onto his desk once he was done, waiting for it to do something, make some sort of sound, give him some reason as to why he should be excited to own one.

It took a few moments and the soft whirring of gears before the snowglobe began to play. The woman inside spun slowly to the music, as glitter swirled around her white, serene looking figure. Paris didn’t immediately recognize the song – in fact, he didn’t recognize it at all, which didn’t help him feel better about it – but there was something soothing about it, something calming. He felt strangely relaxed, and folded his arms on top of his desk to lean forward and carefully watch it.

“Couldn’t you play, like, Silent Night or something?” he wondered, not sure if he felt disappointed, resigned, or something else. It wasn’t that he especially liked Christmas or that he wanted to deck his room out in Christmas gear, he just didn’t understand what the snowglobe was supposed to be.

He stared at it for a long time after the music died down and the figure inside stopped spinning, lost in silent contemplation. Seemingly of their own accord, his hands reached out to take hold of it again, winding the key so that his room was once again filled with tinkling music. It wasn’t a bad song, just foreign to him, but he could get used to it.

Yeah. He could get used to it.

It stopped again sometime later and he wound it up a third time. Feeling strangely at ease despite his confusion, Paris laid his head on his arms while it played.

He was asleep before the song was over.