Nico's Story: A Legacy in Motion
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 A Gift Within Circuits & Curiosity The Young Engineer The Midnight Workshop The Legacy Path
The Midnight Workshop
Santa’s Village - February, 1965
By day, Nico Kringle helped build joy. He measured toy wheels with precision, tested spring-loaded launchers, and repaired the delicate gears in old music boxes. He shared laughter with his fellow elves and listened closely when a child’s wish letter came in with an especially tricky request. But by night, he built something else—something entirely his own.
It began in early February, less than a year after the Kringles had moved into their new house just beyond the bend of Gumdrop Lane. Clara, still a toddler, was enchanted by everything. She chased shadows. She clapped for snowflakes. She squealed with delight when Mrs. Claus gave her a wooden duck on wheels. The house was warm, filled with love and laughter—but Nico needed a space of his own.
Not for distance. For dreaming.
He found a quiet rise at the edge of the woods, past the final flickering lantern of the lane, near a cluster of spruce trees whose branches leaned in protectively. The ground was frozen and thick with snow, but Nico saw beneath it a future floorboard, a foundation, and a door that would always open to possibility.
He began work that night.
Bundled in his thickest woolen coat, Nico dragged a wooden sled behind him, its runners muffled with padded cloth to keep them from squeaking. The sled bore salvaged planks, carved pegs, and a canvas-wrapped toolkit that had once belonged to his great-uncle Tallo—an inventor who had once claimed to hear the “hum of ideas” in the silence before dawn.
The first week, Nico worked by lantern light. He dug through frost-hardened soil and laid flat stones, each one chosen for its shape and weight. His gloves were stiff, his nose red, but he smiled all the same. No one knew he was out here, and that was part of the magic. By day, he gave his all to the Toyshop. But by night, this small corner of the world belonged only to him.
By mid-February, the walls began to rise. The workshop was small, just twelve feet by ten, but every inch was crafted with love. The door was arched and rounded like a storybook page, and Nico carved a small holly branch into the upper frame. The windows were mismatched on purpose—one circular, one square, one shaped like a pentagon—because, as Nico explained to himself, “Ideas don’t come in boxes.”
By mid-February, the walls began to rise. The workshop was small, just twelve feet by ten, but every inch was crafted with love. The door was arched and rounded like a storybook page, and Nico carved a small holly branch into the upper frame. The windows were mismatched on purpose—one circular, one square, one shaped like a pentagon—because, as Nico explained to himself, “Ideas don’t come in boxes.”
Inside, he built a workbench with a swivel vice, a rack of tools held by magnetic pegs, and a series of shelves that adjusted themselves when books or boxes shifted their weight. There was even a short ladder to a cozy loft where he could nap, sketch, or simply watch the snowfall through the crescent-shaped window.
He repurposed broken parts from the Toyshop—springs that still had life in them, gears that needed coaxing—and turned them into new mechanisms. He tested each on a mat stitched from leftover ribbon scraps. He called the mat “Fail-Friendly Ground.”
One night in late February, while adjusting the drawer-lock on a tiny parts cabinet, Nico heard a soft crunch in the snow behind him.
He froze.
For a moment, he imagined a fox. Or worse—a concerned elf supervisor with a clipboard and a frown. But when he stepped outside, he saw only a small figure standing at the treeline, bundled in a red scarf and watching silently.
“Bernard?” Nico called.
The figure stepped forward. It was Bernard, just shy of eighteen, his cheeks pink with cold and his eyes wide with wonder.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Bernard said, his voice quiet. “I was… walking.”
“Walking,” Nico repeated, raising an eyebrow.
Bernard gave a small shrug. “I couldn’t sleep. I’ve seen your sled tracks in the morning. Didn’t follow them before. Thought maybe it was a messenger drop-off route.”
Nico didn’t speak right away. He could have felt defensive. Embarrassed. But Bernard’s expression wasn’t nosy—it was respectful. Maybe even a little reverent.
“You can look inside if you want,” Nico said.
Bernard nodded and followed him in. The warmth from the small stove—a circular unit glowing with a gentle teal flame—pushed back the chill. It was Nico’s own invention, using compressed snow crystals and slivers of blue fairy dust recovered from broken winter toys.
Bernard’s eyes roamed the room. He didn’t touch anything. Just looked.
“It’s beautiful,” he said simply. “You made this all at night?”
“I didn’t want to take away from Toyshop hours,” Nico replied, returning to his bench. “Besides, things feel different out here. Quieter. More... in tune.”
Bernard nodded. “Mrs. Claus once told me that good ideas need space to land. You’ve made a landing zone.”
They stood in silence for a while, listening to the gentle click of cooling gears and the low hum of the snow stove. Then Bernard said, “You might want a crescent window over there. That wall’s darker, and if you’re working with fine parts—light helps.”
Nico looked at the wall. “I was just thinking the same.”
Bernard grinned, then wrapped his scarf more tightly and turned toward the door. “I won’t tell anyone. But if you ever need a hand, I know how to hold a lantern pretty steady.”
And then he was gone, back into the forest shadows.
In the weeks that followed, the workshop gained more features. A wall scroll with blueprints sketched in charcoal. A fold-down drafting desk. A barrel of prototype parts labeled “Maybe Someday.” And above the entry door, a hand-carved plaque:
“Tinkering is Wonder in Motion.”
March thaw crept in slowly, but the workshop stood firm. Some nights Nico would simply sit in the loft and listen to the wind, letting ideas drift in like fireflies. Other times, he stayed up sketching new contraptions—some that would never be built, others that might change everything.
He never said thank you to Bernard in words. He didn’t have to. A second mug began appearing on the workshop shelf. Sometimes cocoa, sometimes tea. Left before Nico arrived, steaming and simple.
And one crisp night, a small crescent-shaped window quietly appeared in the wall where Bernard had suggested it.
Nico smiled.