When the house settles into its nighttime hush and the last ember in the fireplace sighs itself to sleep, three tiny dragons stir among the branches of the Christmas tree. Twinkle wakes first, blinking her star-bright eyes as if checking whether the world is ready for a little magic. Glimmer follows, stretching her wings until they shimmer like frost on a windowpane. Spark tumbles out last, already humming with mischief.
They begin their quiet work.
Twinkle flits from branch to branch, nudging ornaments into gentle balance. A glass snowflake here, a wooden toy soldier there. She hums as she works, and the lights seem to glow a little warmer in response.
Glimmer smooths the garland with slow, careful passes of her tail, weaving it into soft curves that feel like the rhythm of a lullaby. Wherever she touches, a faint dusting of sparkle settles, as light as breath.
Spark darts through the needles, leaving tiny trails of warmth that coax the lights into a steady, welcoming twinkle. He pauses only to nibble a stray gumdrop or two, crumbs of sugar clinging to his snout.
Together, they move through the branches like a whispered secret, adjusting, brightening, blessing. By the time the moon shifts in the sky, the tree has taken on a quiet harmony—as though it has remembered something joyful.
When morning comes, the dragons are gone, tucked back into whatever hidden nook they call home. The family wakes to a tree that feels somehow more itself, glowing with a gentle rightness. A few candies are missing, but no one minds.
Some trees, after all, are lucky enough to be visited by the Tinsel Trio.
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