The highway was quiet, wrapped in winter stillness just days before Christmas. Snow dusted the trees like icing, cars moved slowly, and drivers were lost in holiday thoughts—dinners, gifts, family reunions. Nothing hinted that this ordinary commute would turn unforgettable.
Then came the sound.
A low, rolling boom—not thunder, not an explosion—but something older, heavier, primal. Brake lights flickered as drivers instinctively slowed, exchanging puzzled glances through frosted windshields. Moments later, the forest erupted.
The first reindeer burst onto the road, powerful legs propelling them, eyes wide with panic. A handful at first, darting across lanes, hooves striking asphalt. Drivers slammed brakes, horns blared, doors flew open.
Then more came.
Dozens turned into hundreds, hundreds into thousands. The highway became a living river of fur and hooves, surging forward as one, the earth itself seeming to move beneath them. Cars stood frozen in disbelief. Some laughed nervously. Others whispered: “It’s a Christmas miracle.” Phones captured every second, social media exploded with videos tagged #ReindeerRun, #SantaSightings, #Unreal.
For a few moments, wonder eclipsed fear.
But then reality hit.
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