The shoebox of ribbons lives on the top shelf of the linen closet all year. Curled pieces of last year’s ribbon, tangled with the year before. You untangle a length of green satin, remembering it came off a bottle of gin your neighbour brought over during the ice storm.

The dining room table becomes wrapping headquarters. Scissors, tape dispenser, the roll of paper that seemed like plenty when you bought it. The pattern you thought was subtle looks louder under the overhead light.

AI can design wrapping paper with infinite precision—geometric snowflakes, algorithmically balanced colour palettes. It won’t leave a thumbprint on the paper, won’t use the same sheet twice because it’s soft now, almost cloth-like, from being folded and refolded.

The scissors make that zzzzzip through the paper when the blades are sharp and you pull steady. Finding the end of the tape roll with your fingernail takes longer than the actual wrapping. On the stubborn corner of the sweater box, you layer tape until it’s a thick, shiny patch.

Heavy paper forgives more mistakes.

Under the tree, the presents huddle—lumpy, uneven, corners not quite meeting. One leans slightly, like it’s listening.