The day had begun with a festive air. The snow glistened in the pale morning light, sparkling like icing sugar. The reindeer pawed the ground outside the stable, eager to feel the crisp air on their muzzles. In the workshop, every workbench buzzed with activity: hammers, brushes, and ribbons danced together in a joyful ballet. Elves passed by, laden with piles of gifts, tools, red fabrics, and lists that were a little too long. Everything seemed ready for the big night.
Then, without the slightest warning, a scream tore through the calm of the North Pole.
It started so fast that the stalactites were seen to tremble.
— “My hat! They’ve lost my hat!”
Silence fell suddenly, heavy and icy.
Santa Claus, red with emotion—and not just from the biting cold—paced around like a frantic bear. His gaze searched everywhere, from the top shelves to the smallest corners of the workshop. Nothing. Not a single hat in sight. And yet this hat was unlike any other: it was the one he had always worn, the one whose softness warmed even the darkest nights, the one whose magic allowed the sleigh to rise into the sky.
Without this hat, there would be no tour.
And without a tour… the thought itself seemed too heavy to formulate.
Three elves exchanged a glance. A discreet concern crossed their eyes, followed by a light but solid determination, the kind that is born when the world suddenly becomes dependent on a tiny gesture.
Someone had to save Christmas.
And the adventure had only just begun.