I love winter. And I love the days before Christmas. When the snow falls in soft flakes from the clouds, little frozen stars dance around me and spread the magic of a white world. Winter wonderland. That's what my sister and I used to call this time as children. Every year, our parents made sure that we experienced our very own wonders. Whether it was walking for hours on the frozen lake, noses red and cheeks burning hot from the chase across the ice. Or listening to the choir, angelic voices and exuding a peaceful, warm atmosphere. A sea of lights and colours, the most gigantic Christmas tree our community has ever seen. Every year my father would go into the forest and spend hours looking for the perfect tree. The forester, an old acquaintance of our family walked silently behind my father, waiting patiently for the redeeming words.

Every year he dragged a green monster with lush branches and fragrant needles into my childhood home. Mom served cocoa for us kids and punch for the adults. The needle of the old record player turned its rounds tirelessly. The black vinyl shone in the soft light of the kilometre-long chain of lights that illuminated the gigantic tree. Crackles and pops accompanied the voices of the choir and even today I know every word of the lyrics on my mother's favourite record. The whole house smelled of biscuits and the spicy aroma of home-baked gingerbread. A tradition entered our home, decorating the tree together, Christmas carols and pastries. Red and golden baubles, small and medium sized, a big star on top and glittering like millions and millions of stars filled our home with a Christmas atmosphere. An orange-red fire blazed hotly in the fireplace, freshly cut logs crackled and the smoky aroma mingled with the resinous scent of the fir tree. My sister was beaming from ear to ear as the little bell rang to herald the start of the Christmas season.

I remember those days fondly. We were children with innocent hearts and pure souls, loving parents and a carefree time. Today, almost twelve years after the death of our parents, my sister and I still cherish this tradition. It is not father who squeezes a gigantic Christmas tree through the front door. My brother-in-law Raphael has taken that place and the baking of the biscuits as well as gingerbread according to the old Trueblood family recipe is my responsibility. I love baking for a living and every year I try a new recipe and mix it up with the traditional. The record player is already a few years old and the needle has already had to be replaced. The sound of the needle being pulled through the fine grooves of the record awakens nostalgic feelings and is part of the annual tradition. I wouldn't do without it for the world.

This year's theme of the city of New York brought hot tears to my eyes. Like every morning, I sat at the small table in my kitchen, the cold milk soaking crunchy oatmeal and the tartness of red and blue berries tinting the white liquid slightly pink. WinterWonderLand. Memories flooded my head and clouded my senses. The coffee was long cold as I lowered the newspaper in my hands and paid attention to the annoying vibration of my phone. The cheerful voice of my best friend Clary shattered the silence of a gloomy December morning.
"Alec, sweetheart. How are you?" she fluted into the phone and I took the black device slightly away from my ear. 'I love her. Really very much. However, the sound of Clary's squeaky voice isn't always bearable this early in the morning.
"I'm fine. You don't have to shout like that. Good morning first," I said.
"Are you thinking about Charlie's performance? You're coming aren't you?" she asked in a slight panic and I promptly heard the excited shrieking of my godchild in the background.
"Uncle Alec. Uncle Alec. Mamaaaaa... give me the phone..." the little whirlwind shrieked and I finally decided to put the call on speaker.

A heated discussion about the correct procedure during a phone call broke out between my two favourite people and I smiled shaking my head at the same old spectacle.
"Uncle Alec. Mum's mean. She won't let me talk to you," the little whirlwind complained. I saw Clary in front of me, propping her head in her hands, exhausted and resigned.
"Sweetie, your mama loves you. Don't be so hard on her. You'll have me all to yourself this afternoon after all," I placated Charlie. It didn't take long for the dust to settle. We exchanged the latest Elementary School gossip and agreed on a meeting place for Charlie's big performance. For a while now, my godchild had been singing in our parish's church choir. Clary grew up in a strict Catholic home and my sister and I also went to church regularly with our parents.

The performance in Central Park was an important part of WinterWunderLand. As godfather, I naturally stood by her side and accompanied my little one to the edge of the stage. Proud parents were beaming up to both ears. Cameras and mobile phones were pulled out as the first bars of Silent Night sounded. Angelic voices masked the noise of a never sleeping city and the heart in my chest, which had already lost a part of itself, became heavy as lead and contracted painfully. When I saw Charlotte, with red curls and the face of my best friend, looking up at the sky, I felt like I was going to lose my footing at any moment. And as if she sensed my pain, the little angel looked at me from her sparkling green eyes and I chased away the tears that were welling up. She was so strong that day, even though we were all aware that she was not singing that song for us, but for her beloved daddy.

My best friend, Clary's husband and Charlie's father, died two years ago in service to his country. We mourned together and grew even closer as a family. As often as my job in the emergency room at Idris Medical Center allows, I support Clary and take care of Charlie. I can't replace her father and I don't want to. But I can help her live with the loss and keep Jace alive in her thoughts. Because each of us has our own memories of this special person. Jace Herondale, friend, brother, husband, father. Protector. Charlie gave it her all. Her voice sounded so bright and pure and I was the proudest man in the audience. I smiled lovingly back at her and was never happier than at that moment that my decision to move to New York came so easily. That was a few years ago too and I have never regretted it. My eyes roam over the small gathering of people. They have all come to listen to the chorus of children's voices. The snow falls gently from the clouds and sugars the world around us. There is something magical about it. Biting cold, heart-warming angelic voices and the magic of Christmas that touches the soul and warms the heart.

My sister Izzy is here, standing close to her husband, who has his strong arms protectively wrapped around her. I watch them for a while and smile. It is a beautiful picture and I am happy that they have made it and found each other. The time until they finally said yes to each other was like a game of cat and mouse and not infrequently a perplexed Izzy stood in my flat. The flash as of a glaring light reflection catches my attention. Standing next to my sister is a tall man. I can't make out his face, it's hidden behind a camera. Inevitably I ask myself who he is. But before I can think about it any longer, the solution is right in front of me. The unknown man lowers the camera and my heart almost stops at so much beauty.

His dark hair rises slightly into his forehead, his head covered by a grey mottled woollen cap. A black coat protects his body from the frosty cold. Brown eyes look around sparklingly, memorising every little detail. A blissful smile plays around his beautiful mouth and I can only stare at the full pink lips. He really is beautiful. Izzy also looks at the man next to her and then looks at me with amusement. Of course she doesn't miss my looks. My little sister has clearly chosen the wrong profession. Instead of courses in childbirth preparation, she should be taking seminars under the title: How to spot a flirt and how to get my potential spouse to notice me. Izzy is our Doctor Love and even though her own luck took a few wrong turns, she was 95% right about her friends. I have always been able to successfully avoid a blind date organised by my sister.

I am thirty-five and my last relationship ended with many tears and a pile of broken plates. My jealous ex caught me at a most inopportune moment. I had been unhappy for some time, but many conversations and even an attempt at couples therapy failed miserably. Will distrusted everything and everyone, especially me. A few drinks, a flirtation and the toilet in the club were the final end of our eight-year relationship. I'm not proud of it. It was a turn in the wrong direction and I didn't regret staying on the right path. I've been single for three years and living in New York for the same amount of time now. It's always amazing how one decision can change our whole life so far. Without the turnoff, I'd probably still be sitting in Alicante fixing broken bones and treating cuts at the local hospital. Will would be nagging me every night about adopting and we'd be arguing horribly as usual. Since moving to New York, I feel free and can breathe properly for the first time in years. I love the city and having my favourite people by my side makes it that much better.

My days are long and the shifts are exhausting, leaving little time for family. The little free time I have, I spend with Charlotte or my friends. Love life falls by the wayside. Apart from a few flirtations and blowjobs in the toilet at Pandemonium, the gay hotspot in New York, not much has happened in the last three years. I'm so underfucked, but I don't want to give myself to the first guy who comes along. My Sturm und Drang phase is long gone, and so are the weekends when I secretly and anonymously went to various clubs to get what I needed. This man with the dark hair, the fine Asian features and the camera awakens a long forgotten feeling in me. My stomach tingles and a pleasant warmth flows through me. My heart beats a few beats faster at the thought of walking over to him and just talking to him. I don't know if he's into men, but a casual conversation would get me closer to my answer.

And even if I don't always make wise decisions and take the right path, at the bottom of my heart I'm also just looking for a loving strong partner who will greet me with a blissful smile and a firm hug. Who forgives kisses that leave me breathless and completely out of my senses. Who manages to make my heart and soul shine with a single word. But you don't always get what you want in life, and certainly not me. Because before I can fight my way through the mass of proud parents and freezing passers-by, the beautiful unknown man has already left. The priest's sermon is over and Charlotte is jumping up and down beside me, beaming with joy. One door has closed, but a new one is already opening.
"Did you hear me? Was I loud enough? Did Daddy hear me?" my little mouse asks next to me, looking at me questioningly. I nod and lift her up onto my hip, where she immediately wraps her skinny little leg around my body. Her head rests against my shoulder and I give her a gentle kiss on her fiery red hair.
"We heard you. Your daddy is very proud of you. And so am I." I reply and leave Central Park with thoughts of my best friend.