Cyril Cavaillé

Cyril Cavaillé celebrated a magical New Year's Eve in Himmerfjord dressed as an elf. Enchanted by the smile of a graceful waitress, he became captivated and let the magic of the holiday sweep him away. His memory of the evening was vivid but fragmented: laughter, the sparkle of garlands, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders, and the promise of morning coffee.

The morning began with an icy hangover. My head was splitting, and my tongue felt like cotton wool. “I’ll never drink like that again,” Cyril groaned, burying his face in the cool pillow. "Why not?" a calm, melodic female voice rang out nearby. "I hit on the waitress," Cyril admitted, his eyes still closed, overcome by a wave of shame. "I acted like a complete idiot. She probably hates me now." "Want me to surprise you?" The voice sounded closer, and he caught a faint, familiar scent. "That wasn't the waitress."

Cyril froze. His brain, slow and viscous, tried to digest this information. Not the waitress? But then who... He opened his eyelids with difficulty and turned his head.

She was sitting next to him on the edge of the bed. That same waitress. Her hair was pulled back into a careless bun, and her now-familiar gray eyes gleamed with unbridled gaiety. "So, were the elven charms stronger than your insight yesterday?" she asked, the corners of her lips twitching in a suppressed smile. "It's just that I was working yesterday, and I'm not working today. So, technically, on the morning of January first, I'm no longer your waitress."

A silence filled the room, filled with relief, awkwardness, and budding curiosity. All the incredible questions that had been racing through Cyril's head a moment ago suddenly lost their urgency, giving way to one, the most important: what happens next?