
Across the Coalition of Aligned Worlds, she could imagine this same carol rising in a hundred places at once: sung in English, Centauran Creole, SolCommon, Vulhari, SynthCant. Sung in domed colonies, hydroponic farm chapels, mining outpost rec halls, starship sanctuaries. Sung by people who had never stepped on Earth, yet carried its stories like inherited starlight.

“Why do you sew our stockings?” Ethan asked softly.
She smiled without looking up. “Because store-bought ones are fine for strangers, but family deserves the time it takes to stitch.”

“You always win all the tokens,” Aaron complained without real heat. “You have unfair alien luck.”
Tir pressed both hands to his chest in mock offense. “My luck is regulated. My mother said so.”