Note: I made a list of prompts, and wrote a bite-sized story for each one. They don’t live in the same universe, but they’re all a little off-kilter from what you might expect from holiday fare. And if you pay attention, you’ll notice that the last line of each story becomes the first line of the next. Also?  You can listen to these stories at my podcast website: BathtubMermaid.com.

It was the usual congregation dynamic.

The latecomers slipping into the back pews as quietly as possible, the choir fussing with their folders, the acolytes trying very hard to look solemn while whispering anyway. Mother Ixchel had seen versions of this scene on three different worlds now, but nowhere did it feel quite as tender as it did on Centaurus.

Maybe it was the sky.

Everyone said Centaurus had too many stars—so many they blurred into shimmering clouds at night, as if the cosmos had forgotten where to stop. Even inside the little stone-and-salvage church, she felt their presence pressing close, patient and watchful.

But tonight was Midnight Mass, and if the sky had opinions, it would have to wait.

“Lights down,” she said gently.

A soft cascade of clicks followed. The overhead panels dimmed, then extinguished, until the only illumination came from the low line of candles along the window ledges. Their flames fluttered in the draft from the old ventilation system, bright and fragile—like every human hope that had ever crossed the deep.

The choir drew in a collective breath.

Mother Ixchel felt it then, that exact second just before the hymn began: the hush, the pause, the way the air itself seemed to lean forward. This moment had power. It always had. A kind of quiet magic no one could manufacture, no matter the world or century.

“Silent night… holy night…”

The first notes drifted into the dark, warm and imperfect and achingly sincere. The altos blended late. The tenors missed their entrance. The baritone who repaired terraformers for a living overshot his pitch by a full half step and corrected with the confidence of a man who refused to be embarrassed by joy.

Mother Ixchel closed her eyes.

Across the Coalition of Aligned Worlds, she could imagine this same carol rising in a hundred places at once: sung in English, Centauran Creole, SolCommon, Vulhari, SynthCant. Sung in domed colonies, hydroponic farm chapels, mining outpost rec halls, starship sanctuaries. Sung by people who had never stepped on Earth, yet carried its stories like inherited starlight.

The second verse swelled, soft and steady.

“Glories stream from heaven afar…”

The candles flickered. The shadows breathed. A toddler in the third pew began humming along, entirely off-key and utterly earnest. Someone’s coat rustled. Someone else sniffled quietly.

This was not a grand cathedral, nor a perfect choir, nor a flawless liturgy.

But it was real.

And when the final chord faded, trailing into the vast silence between stars, Mother Ixchel felt something settle inside her—gentle as a hand resting against her heart, familiar as a well-loved psalm.

Not magic made by ritual.

Magic made by them.