nd what about you, Santa?”

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Mr. Potter, the theatre owner, watched from the wings, his stern expression softening. He had seen many plays, directed countless performances, but this—this was something extraordinary. Santa’s presence had transformed the ordinary into the magical, and the audience leaned forward, caught in the spell.

Santa approached Mr. Potter, his boots leaving faint traces of stardust on the polished floor. “Reminders,” he said, his voice a low rumble like distant sleigh bells. “We all need them, my friend.”

Mr. Potter raised an eyebrow. “Reminders of what, exactly?”

Santa’s eyes twinkled. “Of wonder,” he replied. “Of the childlike awe that resides within us, waiting to be awakened. The world may grow busy, hearts may grow weary, but the spirit of Christmas—the eternal flame of hope—never fades.”

Mr. Potter glanced at the stage, where actors rehearsed their lines, their costumes blending with the magic that hung in the air. “And what about you, Santa?” he asked. “What reminders do you need?”

Santa’s laughter rumbled again. “To listen,” he said. “To listen to the whispers of wishes, the laughter of snowflakes, and the quiet dreams that tiptoe through the night. For every heart carries a story, and mr jones the thertre manager gave mr potter a school masters uniform mr potter said pleased