The next morning, sunlight peeks through your window and sparkles off the snow outside. The air smells faintly of cinnamon and sugar. You stretch, yawn, and blink sleepily. For a moment, you wonder if last night really happened. Talking gingerbread cookies? A frosting rebellion? The Candy Cane Express? It had to be a dream… right? You go to the kitchen. Everything looks normal—the mixing bowls are stacked, the flour jar is closed, and the cookie jar sits quietly on the counter. Still, your heart beats a little faster as you lift the lid. It's empty. Every. Single. Cookie. Gone. But just beside the jar, you spot a tiny trail of red and green sprinkles, like a sugary breadcrumb path leading to the back door. You crouch down and follow them, step by step, until you reach the doormat. When you open the door, the cold morning air rushes in. There, pressed into the fresh snow, are dozens of tiny gingerbread footprints marching away from the house—each one dusted with a little glitter of sugar. The trail winds down the yard and disappears into the white sparkle of winter. "Guess they didn't need my help" you whisper. Rex pads up beside you and gives a soft woof, his nose twitching at the sweet scent in the air. You look toward the horizon, where snowflakes drift lazily down. Somewhere, far away, maybe those little cookies are still marching—on their way to the North Pole, frosting faces glowing with adventure. You whisper into the breeze, "Good luck, little cookies. Merry Christmas."