Before Aster realized it, the days leading up to the Cherubs' release party had gone. Only a week remained, and she could not sleep. She turned, and she tossed, unable to put off her worries for even a moment. Outside the window, snow could be seen falling softly, waltzing from heaven under streetlights against the black sky of that cold Christmas eve.

Aster, so as to not be left alone at the shop on Christmas of all days, had been invited over by Sylvia to spend the holiday with her and her family, the living room and couch of whom she was now tucked snugly within.

Finally giving up on sleep, she pulled her blanket over her head and groaned in frustration. A miracle had happened, and yet Aster still had immense doubts.

This miracle, in specific terms, was that for the first time in The Love You Forevers' short career, their practice had gone well. In fact, they had gone so above their expectations that they could scarcely believe it.

With this success however came an increased pressure to deliver, which Aster felt acutely, as if the better they became the more heartbreaking it would be if it all ended in disaster.

She shut her eyes and screamed within her thoughts.

The Love You Forevers were historically disasters, and the onus was on them, with their biggest show to date, to finally prove that notion false.

She grappled on and off with thoughts of regret, debating if they should abandon the show. Though she knew she could never live with herself if they did.

Yet, when she thought of the Cherubs, she couldn't help but feel herself grow diminutive in comparison.

To her, the Cherubs belonged to wholly different class of performer. They belonged to that vaunted group forever out of her reach, whom Aster deemed 'actual' musicians— those who had found any manner of success.

No matter the compliments she received, Aster could not see herself as anything but a hobbyist with an unbelievable dream, and so the idea of rubbing shoulders with success made her immensely insecure.

However, this very David and Goliath dynamic also sparked within her the slightest glimmer of excitement, should they actually manage the impossible task of a successful concert.

The Cherubs were the biggest band in the Cherryaire metro area, the leading act of a new wave of energetic rock musicians which sought to take the charts dominated by singers such as Johnny Vallerie and Godiva. To be seen as moving within the same scene as them could only do wonders for the band's opportunities.

Aster's mind was now fully awake, gorging itself upon thoughts of potential fame which called out alluringly for her to achieve.

Were they actually ready? she wondered. Had their week of breakneck preparation done enough to ensure that they could break their curse of misfortune?

She inspected the callouses worn well on her fingers. She placed her thumb and middle finger together, and rubbed them against one another. The tips were numb, the nerve endings worn well away and dulled by grappling with thick bass strings.

She tossed and turned a few times, and then, realizing sleep would still not visit her, rolled over with a defeated huff and faced the large, dazzling tree nestled within the corner of the living room.

In the midst of the storm of nerves swirling within her like the waltzing, fat flakes outside the window, the sight of these pure, twinkling lights seemed to double in their beauty and tenderness.

She glanced down toward Sylvia, fast asleep next to the couch on the living room floor, cocooned in several blankets.

As she looked down at her, Sylvia began to stir. She gave a small yawn as she awoke, and cast her tired yet warm gaze towards Aster, finding her still awake. She smiled.

“Too excited for Santa?” she teased, stretching.

Aster frowned with mock indignation, but relented with her own almost imperceptible smile.

“Yeah,” she answered.

Sylvia laughed.

“What do you hope he brings you?” she replied, slowly sitting up.

Aster turned fully over to face Sylvia, and couldn't help but smirk when seeing again the Zorg onesie in which she was dressed.

“A 1968 Gibson Les Paul cherry sunburst,” she answered, not thinking. Then, noticing her flub, her eyes went wide.

“I mean—”

Sylvia looked at her in perplexment, cocking her head.

“I don't think even Santa can bring you something from the future, silly,” she said, chuckling.

Aster fell back onto the couch, and laughed nervously. She was not fond of being reminded, especially in tender moments such as these, that this was all a simulation.

Such thoughts paralyzed her with incredible loneliness, especially when she stopped to think that she was only interfacing with data. She hated to think that way, as she felt it unfair to the genuine feelings the concept of them awoke within her, but she could not help think upon it from time to time.

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Sylvia always brought it to the forefront.

Her warm, vivacious, and friendly face spoke so loudly of life that Aster could never consider her as a fake. She could not bring herself to think of Sylvia, or anybody she had met thus far in this world, as any less real than the people she had known all her life.

The only thing which distinguished them from all the others was her knowledge that that they were simulations.

Yet, Aster could reach out and poke Sylvia's cheek. Sylvia would feel it, respond, and smile. Seemingly of her own volition, she would counter with the most inane or frivolous comeback, and then poke Aster— and Aster, though her actual body numb, would receive the input and feel it. She would grin, and the warmth of their friendship would course through her body, as firmly and vividly as it would in any 'real' context.

These thoughts— those of herself in relation to simulated persons, were some of the first quandaries she had encountered upon arriving in Peppermint Plains. She had acknowledged that interaction with superbly recreated people would very likely bring her to question existence itself. After all, philosophical and ethical debates about AI were commonplace in all levels of schooling in 2066, and she had been raised to question whether the artificial intelligences that she interacted with in daily life could ever be more than just tools.

She had believed she understood, but it was not until now, seeing Sylvia's lethargic smile cast in the cascade of shimmering lights and the bright, moonlight soaked snow, that Aster absolutely appreciated it. The Eden device was less simulating this world, and more acting as a portal between it and Aster's own.

Sylvia, her effervescent sheen rendered soft and lax like a purring cat by her drowsiness, closed her eyes and began to speak.

“To think, you've almost been here three months,” she said warmly.

Aster's tired eyes opened wide at this remark, realizing that Sylvia was indeed correct.

She wasn't sure if it was the trappings of Christmas which hung around in all visible corners of the room which exacerbated her feelings of nostalgia, but she suddenly found herself arrested by a feeling of great warmth as her thoughts moved to the reminiscence of all that had happened in Peppermint Plains since her arrival.

In three short months, her life had changed in more ways than the entire twenty years which had preceded them. She had found her first true acquaintances, her first job, and had learned how to engage with people beyond just devolving into horrific panic attacks.

Above all, she had achieved a lifelong dream of not only seeing, but playing her first concert.

It was all because of them, she thought. It was all because they believed in her, because they put up with her.

“Yeah, you're right,” she replied, smiling widely for perhaps the first time in her life.

Sylvia beamed upon seeing this.

“Do you like it here?” she followed cautiously.

“I love it,” Aster responded without hesitation. Her thoughts then returned to 2066, and her expression grew resolute. “Moving here was the best decision of my life.”

Sylvia was now fully sat up, wiping at her sleepy eyes.

“You know, you've never really talked about what it was like where you lived.”

Aster, who did not at all expect this line of questioning, froze.

At that moment it occurred to her that she had yet to concoct a backstory for herself.

She looked down at Sylvia, bubbling with curiosity, and felt the panic rise up within herself.

Her thoughts, frantically scattering in all directions in search of some reply, brushed up against the notion of letting her in on at least some of the truth.

She shivered, and looked inward with absolute shock.

The opportunity to confide in somebody about her life appealed to her more than she had ever realized now that it presented itself, but revealing the whole truth was absolutely out of the question.

“It's awful,” she finally said solemnly. “It's a place where the only way you can live is by making sure others can't.”

She could see Sylvia's surprise by the slight shimmer of light cast upon her facial features.

“See, that's what gets me,” she replied, growing excited. “That there's places in the world where people like you can be made to be so unhappy. How is that right?”

Aster was taken aback by Sylvia's words. The familiar twinge of tears aching to be let loose began to tickle at her eyes.

“And we don't even try to fix it, do we? We just make it worse! That stupid war we're fighting— we're not saving anyone, we're just making more people who need saving!”

Aster listened with great interest as Sylvia began to speak at length of her anti-war passion. Though it was all technically fictional to her, she still reserved a great amount of respect for what it meant to Sylvia, and gave her ear as if it directly concerned her.

She wished deeply to admit to her how good of a person she thought she was, but as always her anxiety and insecurities would not allow herself to do it.

Sylvia kept watch on Aster's face, and was noticeably hesitating, as if wanting to broach another topic. Suddenly, she flushed bright red and spoke.

“Anyways, thanks for moving here!” she confided within her newfound excitedness. “I don't have many friends to be honest, so it's been nice to find someone who can put up with me.”

She then chuckled, though her face wore a melancholic, embarrassed expression.

Aster was stunned. The thought that Sylvia, who she viewed as the model of affability and charm, held these insecurities seemed almost unbelievable. Yet, the idea that Aster, worthless as she viewed herself, could be of any use to her, caused her chest to seize with warmth.

Emboldened by this admission, and carried aloft by that white hot feeling of affection which had scarcely ever graced her veins, Aster followed with one of her own.

“You're the first friend I've ever had,” she mumbled.

Though hardly visible in the dark of the night, Aster could feel her face burning from the crimson that flashed over it, down to the very roots of her hair.

Suddenly, her heart began to once again pick up pace, and a feeling of euphoria came over her. Never in all her days of doubt and seemingly endless depression could she have ever imagined admitting what she just had to another person. To open herself so vulnerably to another seemed contrary to how she had behaved her entire life.

Yet, the person sitting across from her, cast in the refraction of some yuletide diamond, accepted her openly, without judgment.

At last, Aster began to cry. She felt the warm tears trickle down her face, and wiped at them. At the crossroads of her personal thawing and the biggest opportunity of their career thus far, Aster was alight. She was filled for the first time in her life with feelings antithesis to the woe and hatred that formed her being.

Aster had hope.