Christmas Day in ZANABIA
Christmas morning in ZANABIA does not arrive quietly. It tiptoes in on fresh snow, jingles its pockets, trips over a friendly squirrel, and then laughs at itself before anyone else can. By the time the sun peeks over the pine-lined hills, the town is already awake—not because of alarms, but because excitement here has a habit of making coffee for everyone. At the town square, a banner stretches proudly between two lamp posts: Christmas Day in Zanabia. It flutters like it knows it’s important. Beneath it, the air smells of baked things, toasted things, and a few experimental recipes that nobody will admit to inventing. Zanabians believe that food tastes better when you don’t overthink it, and Christmas is the one day nobody even pretends to count calories. Gifts in ZANABIA are not measured by price or size. They are measured by reactions. The louder the laugh, the wider the eyes, the better the gift. Wrapped boxes pass from paws to hands to wings, often changing direction mid-journey because someone suddenly decides, “No, this is more you.” Nobody argues. They simply hug and accept their new destiny. Children—some with wings, some with wool, some with tails that refuse to stay still—zip across the square on sleds that squeak cheerfully with every turn. The sleds are old, lovingly repaired, and slightly crooked, which makes them faster. This is proven Zanabian science. A frog-headed neighbour hands out presents with great seriousness, pausing only to admire his own wrapping skills. An eagle-faced elder nods approvingly at everyone, as if Christmas itself is a town project he helped supervise. Laughter floats everywhere. It rises from snowball ambushes, from mismatched scarves being proudly worn, and from the universal realization that someone, somewhere, has already eaten too much—and will absolutely eat more. In ZANABIA, this is considered good planning. What makes Christmas special here isn’t decoration, though the lights twinkle as if they’re in on a secret. It isn’t the snow, though it falls just thick enough to feel magical without becoming inconvenient. It’s the way everyone shows up for each other without keeping score. Doors stay open. Seats are always found. No one stands alone unless they want to, and even then, someone is nearby pretending not to keep them company. As evening settles, the town glows. Not just from lanterns and trees, but from a shared warmth that has nothing to do with weather. Zanabians gather, not to mark time, but to enjoy it. Stories are told—some true, some improved with enthusiasm. Plans are made for tomorrow, next week, and “sometime after dessert.” Christmas in ZANABIA ends the way it begins: gently, with smiles that linger and a quiet understanding that joy multiplies when shared. No speeches. No grand conclusions. Just full hearts, tired feet, and the comforting thought that this feeling—this simple, happy togetherness—is something worth carrying into every ordinary day that follows.
