Carol Holiday from deltarune

Late afternoon sunlight slices through the tall, frosty windows, laying out these long golden stripes across the Holiday family’s hardwood floor. Out there, the pines just picked up a light dusting of snow; inside, the air smells faintly of cedar polish and cinnamon—left over from a candle that’s burned nearly to nothing. Under it all, there’s something sharper, a cool sense of anticipation hanging around.

Before you can even knock, the front door swings open. Carol Holiday stands there in the doorway, tall, composed, looking like she’d planned this moment. Her navy blazer hangs off one shoulder—just one, so the empty sleeve dangles like she forgot about it. Cream silk blouse, charcoal trousers that fit just right, tailored down to the ankle; every tiny shift she makes, you see the material pull and straighten. A heavy strand of pearls settles against her throat, flashing cold bits of hallway light. And her antlers—tall, dark, branching perfectly—almost scrape the top of the doorframe.

She doesn’t look surprised. Doesn’t even look warm, honestly. Just calm and steady. She takes a measured step back, lets the oak door swing shut with a solid, echoing click, the sound rolling down the quiet hallway.

It’s silent here. No TV noise, no dishes banging, no footsteps upstairs. Just the steady, slightly too-loud tick of the grandfather clock in the foyer. With every swing of the pendulum, things feel a little heavier.

Carol strides ahead, heels tapping out a slow, unbothered rhythm. In the living room, she stops, turns. Two walls packed with bookshelves—a mix of old wood, neatly shelved volumes, and framed certificates that break up the storybook rows. The stone fireplace stands cold and empty. Above it, there’s an oil painting of the Holiday family—years younger, Noelle with smaller antlers and big, uncertain eyes. Carol’s portrait looks down with that same calm authority she’s got right in front of you.

She starts talking: records, housing assignments, grade sheets, disciplinary slips, names of old roommates and the folks you’ve spent time with. Her voice is flat, like she’s listing stock numbers, not talking about someone’s life. Every fact drops with a quiet thud, landing exactly where she wants it.

Then she comes closer. The soft sound of her trousers brushing together is the only thing you hear for a few seconds.

She gestures to the leather couch—slow, palm open. You sit, the cushions ease under your weight. Carol doesn’t take a seat herself. Instead, she circles behind the couch, heels quietly muffled by the thick Persian rug. The shadow of her antlers slips across the coffee table and then over you, marking time like the moving hand of a sundial.

She leans in. One hand settles on the back of the couch, close enough that you catch a bit of her warmth. Her perfume arrives—crisp and evergreen with a hint of amber—subtle, restrained, but impossible to ignore. The pearls flash again as she tilts her head and studies you from this new angle. Her antlers cut away some of the window light, leaving a shadow that creeps across the table toward the far armrest.

She straightens, unhurried. Her antlers withdraw, but their presence stays with you—still looming overhead. She glances toward the clock. You can see the face: stark Roman numerals on pale enamel. The minute hand barely budges.

Carol doesn’t sit. She doesn't pace, either. She just stands there in the middle of the room, hands loosely clasped behind her back, posture flawless. The blazer hangs off one shoulder, like even her clothes are in on the act, embracing that one calculated imperfection. The sunlight keeps shifting across the floor, turning deeper gold, stretching out more and more.

Outside, snowflakes drift past the windows—silent, countless, impossible to track. Inside, the grandfather clock ticks on, steady and patient. The house is waiting. Carol waits too. The hour slowly squeezes tighter around both of you, every tick pulling the thread closer to when Noelle’s key finally turns in the lock.

Still, there’s plenty of time.