Midwinter’s Eve
CHAPTER ONE
Nicolas Perrin is seven years old, and he is certain that the snow is magic.
He stands at the edge of the walkway in front of his house, boots half-laced and pajama cuffs tucked into them like he dressed in a hurry. His red coat is a size too big, the sleeves swallowing his hands unless he pulls them tight. A fuzzy green hat leans to one side on his head. His breath curls in the cold like tiny dragons.
The snow drifts down under the streetlamp across the yard, not falling fast but floating, like it’s trying to decide where to land. Each flake glows gold in the light, spinning slowly, like it knows it’s being watched.
Nicolas watches.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stares up at the sky, lips parted slightly, blinking flakes from his lashes. His cheeks are pink. His nose is red. But he doesn’t notice. Or mind.
It’s Christmas Eve, and it feels like it.
Not just because of the lights wrapped around the porch railing, or the smell of cinnamon coming from the house, or the carols playing softly inside. No, this feeling is different. Deeper. Quieter. Like the whole world is holding its breath, just waiting for something wonderful.
He takes one small step forward, closer to the light, and tilts his head all the way back. The snowflakes tickle his face, landing on his cheeks and the tip of his nose.
He giggles.
Then he sticks out his tongue and catches one.
“Mmm,” he says, smacking his lips like a food critic. “Tastes like… cold marshmallows. Or maybe cloud sprinkles.”
He laughs again, soft and breathy, and spins once in place, arms out wide, like he’s trying to hug the air.
“Hi, snow,” he whispers, looking up. “I like you. Don’t stop yet.”
Across the street, someone’s window glows with blinking red and green lights. Somewhere far away, a dog barks. Closer, wind chimes ring gently on a porch.
But mostly, it’s quiet.
Magic quiet.
Nicolas closes his eyes and just listens.
Then he opens them and whispers something to the sky, not loud, not even fully formed. Just a small string of sounds, like a wish only the stars are meant to hear.
Behind him, the house glows warm through the curtains. He can hear a door open, just barely, and the soft clink of mugs being set down on a table.
He turns his head but doesn’t go in.
Not yet.
Right now, the world feels just right. Like a secret. Like a story that hasn’t been told yet.
And Nicolas Perrin doesn’t want to miss a single word of it.
The living room feels like a snow globe that’s just been shaken.
Everything is soft and still and glowing. The tree reaches all the way to the ceiling, its branches full and brave, wrapped in blinking lights and glittering ribbons. The fireplace hums, popping and crackling like it’s telling stories only the flames can understand. Outside the window, the snow is still falling, each flake catching the light as if the magic followed him inside.
Nicolas steps inside and closes the door behind him. The warmth rushes to meet him, fogging his glasses for a second. He peels off his coat and hat and tosses them on the chair by the fireplace without looking. He doesn’t need cocoa. Not yet. Not even slippers. He’s not ready to be done with the magic.
The house smells exactly how magic should smell, like cinnamon and pine needles and warm sugar. The kind of smell that makes you feel safe. Like something good is just around the corner.
Just as he started toward the tree, he heard his mother’s voice float in from the kitchen.
“Nic, want to help with Santa’s plate?”
He spun around without hesitation.
The kitchen was bright and warm, all golden light and soft shadows. His dad was already there, tying a ribbon around a small bell to place next to the cup. His mom handed Nicolas the holiday plate, the one with the dancing reindeer and the little chip on the edge.
Three cookies. One chocolate chip, one gingerbread, one with red and green sprinkles that looked like it had been decorated in a snowstorm. Nicolas had made that one himself. It wasn’t pretty, but it was big. He made sure it went right in the center.
His dad handed him the glass of milk.
“Steady now,” he said, and Nicolas grinned like he was carrying a sacred artifact.
They walked together to the small table by the fireplace.
The plate went down with care. Then the glass. Then, finally, the bell — positioned just right.
“Perfect,” his mom whispered.
“Too perfect,” Nicolas added, eyebrows raised. “He’ll think it’s a trap.”
His dad chuckled.
They stood there for a beat, just the three of them, admiring their work. The fire popped softly beside them.
Then Nicolas whispered, almost to himself, “He’s gonna love it.”
His mom kissed the top of his head. “Of course he will.”
She paused. “Oh! Before I forget, look who came down from the attic today.”
She walked over to the far side of the living room and pulled a large plastic tub out from behind the couch. Its lid was taped at the corners, just like always. On top, in faded marker and childlike lettering, was the name that had stuck since Nicolas was four:
Merryweather
(“Keeper of Christmas. Beware of tangled lights.”)
Nicolas gasped.
“Merryweather! He made it!”
“Barely,” his mom said. “He put up a fight. Nearly took me and your dad both to get him down the stairs.”
Nicolas knelt beside the old storage bin, as if greeting an old friend.
He placed a hand gently on the lid, which always stuck a little. You had to twist it just right to get the latches to pop.
Inside: magic.
Wrapped in tissue paper, tangled in tinsel, the ornaments were like old friends returning from a long nap. Nicolas pulled each one out carefully, whispering hello like they were people. Which, to him, they kind of were.
The sparkly bell? That was Gregory. He used to be a knight. Now he ran a bookstore in the clouds.
The little cloth mouse with the red scarf? Matilda. She could speak every language but only when no one was listening.
And then he found them.
The beads.
The long string of plastic decorating beads, all red and gold and green, coiled at the bottom of the bin like a sleeping dragon.
Nicolas pulled the strand out slowly, letting it drape across his arms like treasure. Then he looped it into a big circle on the carpet, crouched down, and slowly, carefully, pulled the center up with both hands.
The beads followed.
They rose from the floor like magic, like a golden snake charmed by invisible music, clinking softly as the light caught every angle. For a moment, it shimmered and danced in the air, rising into a perfect dome of color and light.
Nicolas’s eyes widened.
“Whoa…” he breathed. “It’s a bubble of Christmas.”
He let it fall, and the beads scattered across the carpet with a satisfying hiss.
He places the beads aside and drops to his knees.
He crawls underneath the Christmas tree and it’s like he’s entering another world. The branches hang low and heavy, brushing his hair as he slides in. It’s darker under here, but the lights are brighter somehow, like stars behind a curtain of green.
He pulls the blanket from the couch over his legs and folds his arms behind his head. From this angle, the tree looks endless, like a world turned upside down. The ornaments dangle like treasure maps and spells. The gold star at the top peeks through the branches, like it’s watching him.
“Hey,” Nicolas whispers, “I’m back.”
He picked up right where he left off with his old friends from last year.
The reindeer with one missing eye? That’s Captain Dasher. He’s a sky pirate now.
The wooden toy soldier? Retired. Runs a bakery in the clouds.
He waves a hand toward the glittery sleigh tucked into the middle branches.
“You’re gonna fly tonight,” he says, eyes wide. “I know it.”
The sleigh doesn’t move, but he doesn’t expect it to. Not yet. Magic always waits until you’re asleep.
The fireplace crackles louder behind him. The lights on the tree blink slow and steady.
Red. Green. Gold. Blue.
He watches them without blinking, like they’re trying to send him a message in a secret code. Maybe they are. Maybe only kids can read it.
The tree smells like winter and hope. The branches above sway just a little from the heat of the fire. The angel near the top wobbles in her place, and Nicolas grins.
“Hold on,” he tells her. “Almost there.”
He presses a hand against the carpet, feeling how scratchy it is through the blanket. A pine needle sticks to his sleeve. He doesn’t brush it off. It feels like a badge. Like proof he was here.
The lights blink again.
He closes his eyes, just for a second, and whispers to no one:
“Please let me hear the sleigh bells.”
When he opens them, everything is the same.
And somehow, that makes it even more perfect.
Then something shifts in his memory.
His eyes snap open.
“The snow!”
He scrambles out from beneath the tree, blanket trailing behind him, and pads quietly up the stairs. He stops in front of his sister’s room and taps gently on the door.
“Lucy?” he whispers. “Luce?”
A sleepy groan followed by, “Yes, Nick. I know it’s snowing.”
“Yeah!” he replies, with a giant smile growing on his face.
“Could you do me a favor though? Could you not walk in the side yard tomorrow morning?”
“What?”
“The side yard,” he repeats. “That stretch of snow between the driveway and the fence. It’s always the most perfect-looking part.”
She doesn’t answer.
“It looks like magic when nobody walks through it,” he continues. “Like the world is new. You always cut through it to get to the sleds and you ruin the whole thing.”
A long pause. Then: “Fine,” she mumbles, and turns over.
Nicolas smiles.
He turns and walks softly back downstairs.
Some people just need reminding.
Back under the tree, Nicolas lifts one finger and points to a snowman ornament made of felt and buttons.
“You’re on bell patrol,” he says. “You have to ring exactly once if Santa’s early. Twice if he forgets his hat again.”
He turns to a wooden reindeer, antlers chipped at the top.
“Captain,” he says, voice low and serious. “The skies are clear. Launch sequence begins when the cookies are warm.”
The tree lights blink slowly. Red. Blue. Gold. Green.
He grins. His voice drops into a whisper as he leans close to a dangling candy cane made of beads.
“You’re the decoy,” he says. “Hide by the chimney. If the cat shows up, distract him with jazz hands.”
Behind him, the floor creaks.
Nicolas hears it but doesn’t look up. He’s too deep in it. Too close to liftoff.
Then he hears the slow sound of knees meeting carpet. A pause. A breath.
And then a rustle beside him.
He turns his head.
His Grandpa is lying on his back. Right beneath the tree.
His sweater bunches around his stomach. One arm rests behind his head. The other rests on his chest. He stares up through the branches, eyes soft, blinking against the shifting lights.
“Grandpa.” Nicolas whispers.
Just the word. But it carries something full and warm.
Grandpa turns his head slightly. Their eyes meet.
Nicolas smiles. A simple, quiet smile, like he’s glad his grandpa found the way in.
Then he turns back to the ornaments.
“The elf squad’s almost ready,” he says. “They’re waiting for the launch bell. They’ve got marshmallows, glitter rope, and one banana. I don’t know why. They just do.”
Grandpa doesn’t laugh. Not loudly.
He just watches.
Listens.
Feels.
Nicolas continues his mission, pointing to each ornament like it’s part of a constellation only he can see. His words come softly, but they’re rich with certainty. The candy cane has a jetpack. The mouse with a scarf is the North Pole’s head librarian. The angel near the top can speak twelve languages, thirteen if you count reindeer.
Grandpa’s smile is the kind that starts small and stays. His eyes move from ornament to ornament, following Nicolas’s finger. He doesn’t say a word, but something inside him shifts.
The kind of shift you feel in your chest when an old song plays and you suddenly remember every word.
He watches his grandson with a quiet admiration.
There’s a softness in his face now. A smile that doesn’t quite reach his lips but lives in the lines beside them. In his stillness, something flickers. Something old. Not faded, just tucked away.
Wonder.
The kind he thought had been folded up and left behind somewhere long ago.
But here it is—alive again, glowing in the voice of the boy beside him.
Then, gently, he reaches into the pocket of his cardigan.
A small cloth bundle.
He lays it beside Nicolas.
The boy pauses. Looks at it. Then up.
Grandpa’s voice is quiet, just above the sound of the fire.
“These aren’t just mittens, Nic,” he says. “They’re a little bit of Christmas you can take with you.”
Then he reaches out, smooths Nicolas’s hair with the side of his hand, and slowly stands up.
Nicolas doesn’t speak.
He unwraps the bundle slowly. The wool is soft. Red. A little fuzzy, but warm. Worn in the way that means they’ve been loved.
He slips them on, one hand at a time. Then wiggles his fingers.
They fit.
Not perfectly.
But perfectly enough.
He glances toward the window, snowflakes still spinning down under the golden street lamp.
He smiles at the sight, the same way he had smiled as his Grandpa.
“Hi, snow,” he whispers again. “Don’t stop yet.”
And Nicolas Perrin, age seven, lying under a tree on Christmas Eve with a blanket on his legs and mittens on his hands, closes his eyes with childlike content, like the world just gave him a secret, as the snow continues to fall.
In the next town over, the Bolzani house was already bursting with holiday joy.
The front door never rested. It swung wide, gulping a gust of night air along with the latest arrivals, then slammed shut only to fling itself open again moments later. Each entry carried a little storm: boots stamping snow onto the mat, scarves unwinding, trays of food balanced like trophies, folding chairs banging doorframes. The reading chair in the front parlor disappeared beneath a rising tide of coats and hats until it looked like a mountain had grown inside the house.
“Careful! Don’t drop the cookies!” Aunt Rosa scolded as she shuffled in with a pan covered in foil. Behind her, Uncle Sal followed with two bottles of wine tucked under one arm and a chair dragging at his heels. From upstairs, a cousin’s laugh rolled down the staircase and somehow merged perfectly with the chatter in the kitchen. The house took every new sound and wove it into the fabric of the night.
The kitchen was the center of gravity. Pots crowded the stovetop, lids clicking as steam tried to escape. Garlic browned in olive oil, sweetened by the tang of tomatoes; lemon sliced sharp through the air where fish sizzled and popped in shallow pans of oil. Desserts lined the counter like an army waiting for orders: cannoli in neat rows, cheesecakes, a homemade icebox cake, and the family favorite, Cousin Tracy’s Death by Chocolate.
From the living room, Bing Crosby’s voice drifted out of the record player, the notes softened by age. The carol threaded the air, quickly swallowed by the chorus of the house, conversations spilling over one another, laughter bouncing between rooms. A question from the kitchen might be answered from the hallway; a joke begun on the stairs finished in the dining room.
In the middle of it all stood Eve, seven years old, her braid loosening from the speed of her movements. She slipped between legs and arms, stealing kisses from relatives and cookies from trays. She hugged Aunt Teresa tight, then wriggled free and sped into the kitchen, bumping against Nonna’s leg as she passed. Without thinking, Eve reached toward the simmering pan on the stove, her fingers stretching for the spoon.
Nonna snapped the wooden spoon down with a sharp tap. “No, no! You’ll burn yourself,” she scolded, her voice firm.
Eve’s hand fell back, her eyes wide. For a moment Nonna’s stern gaze held, and then it softened into a smile. She reached for the loaf of bread on the counter, tore off a crusty end, and split it cleanly in two and placed one piece into Eve’s small hand, then leaned close, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“This is just for us. Our secret.”
Nonna popped her own piece into her mouth with a wink.
Eve lit up, certain she and Nonna now shared a secret magic all their own.
The tree stood glowing in the corner of the living room, its lights blinking in steady rhythm, ornaments shimmering when cousins brushed past. Beautiful as it was, it seemed content to step back from the spotlight. Tonight, the real centerpiece was the living, moving storm of people: the shuffle of trays from oven to table, the laughter that clung to the walls, the children racing down the hallway in socks, the grown-ups raising voices just enough to be heard over it all.
Eve inhaled every bit of it, the warmth, the smells, the overlapping sounds. This was Christmas for her: a house too small for the amount of love it held, spilling over at the seams.
When dinner ended, the house still hummed with its echoes. Plates sat stacked at the ends of the table, crumbs scattered across the tablecloth like confetti. The adults lingered in their chairs, talking in overlapping circles, voices lowered but still bright, laughter breaking out in bursts that seemed to shake the chandelier.
And then Anna, one of the older cousins, spoke up. She was seventeen, tall, and carried herself with the kind of authority the younger kids automatically trusted.
“You know,” she began casually, just loud enough for the cluster of younger cousins to hear, “I heard Santa’s heading our way.”
The children froze mid-whisper, eyes widening.
“Really?” one of them asked, clutching at Eve’s sleeve.
Anna nodded, her gaze flicking toward the little ones with just enough gravity to convince them. “We’d better get downstairs before he gets too close. If we’re lucky, we might even see his sleigh through the window.”
That was all it took. Excitement erupted like a spark on dry tinder. Daniel, a college-aged cousin home for break, appeared in the hallway with a worn red book in hand. He grinned as he waved it. “C’mon, we’ll read this while we wait. That way, if he shows up, we’re ready.”
They bustled toward the basement, feet thudding on the steps, socks slipping across the carpet at the bottom, voices echoing in the stairwell, the herd settled into the finished room.
The cousins sprawled across the carpet, forming a messy circle. Some leaned against the couch; others stretched out on their bellies. Eve nestled between two younger cousins, hugging her knees, her braid brushing her shoulder as she leaned forward, eyes wide.
Daniel cleared his throat and opened the book. “‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house…”
The words tumbled out warm and steady, wrapping around the children like a blanket. Eve mouthed some of the lines silently, already knowing them by heart, though Daniel’s voice gave them new life. The littlest cousins gasped at the stockings and giggled when the reindeer were named.
Halfway through, Anna’s hand shot up toward the half-frosted basement window, her eyes wide. “Look!” she whispered urgently.
The room exploded into motion. The children scrambled to the window in a flurry of elbows and socks, tripping over one another in their rush. Eve pressed against the cold glass, her breath fogging it instantly, her small hands cupped on either side of her face.
There it was, a single bright light in the night sky, sharper and stronger than all the rest.
Eve’s heart leapt. She didn’t know what it was, and she didn’t think to question it. To her, it could only be one thing. It had to be Santa.
“See? He’s getting closer,” Anna breathed, hushed but steady.
The younger cousins squealed, bouncing on their toes. Eve’s chest fluttered with a joy so strong it almost hurt.
Daniel’s voice brought them back. He had resumed the reading, his tone deeper now, more theatrical, carrying the magic forward: “‘More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, and he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name…’”
The children sank back down, still buzzing from the glimpse of the sky, their imaginations glowing as bright as the star.
For Eve there was no question, no doubt. Santa was close, she could feel it.
While the cousins pressed close to the window and Daniel’s voice carried the poem through the basement, the adults upstairs slipped into motion.
The front door opened in a rhythm now, quick gusts of cold, boots crunching the porch, arms full of wrapped boxes and bags.
“Careful, careful,” Eve’s father murmured as he shifted a stack of gifts higher in his arms. His sister trailed behind, dragging two more bags, ribbon handles cutting into her fingers.
“Where are we putting them?” asked Uncle Ralph, his breath puffing as he stamped snow from his shoes.
“In the living room, like always,” came the reply. “Pile them right in the middle.”
One by one, the presents formed a mountain. Bright paper shimmered under the glow of the tree, ribbons curled in cascades, tags fluttered as they were set down. The tree itself stood tall, its lights twinkling steadily, as if it knew it was in on the secret.
At the edge of the pile, Eve’s mother set down a red box, straightening the bow before stepping back to survey the scene. “It never looks like enough until you see it all together,” she whispered, half to herself.
“Which kids still believe?” Aunt Maria asked as she slid another package onto the stack.
“Austin, for sure.”
“Rosie, depending on the day.”
“And Eve?”
A pause. A shrug. “She’s seven. She’s still all in.”
They didn’t linger. More trips to make, more bags to bring in from trunks waiting in the driveway. The door swung open again, another gust of cold, another armful of packages shuffled into the growing mountain.
And beneath their feet, in the basement, the children huddled close, their voices rising and falling with Daniel’s reading. One world was waiting, wide-eyed and certain; the other was working, careful and unseen, two halves of the same tradition unfolding at once.
It began faintly, almost hidden beneath Daniel’s steady reading: a jingle, light and far away, like bells caught in the wind.
The cousins froze. Daniel’s voice faltered, and then it came again, louder this time, unmistakable. Bells.
And then, the voice. Deep, booming, rolling through the house as if the walls themselves carried it:
“HO! HO! HO!”
The basement erupted. Blankets flew, elbows jabbed, the youngest squealed so loudly the sound bounced off the low ceiling. Anna snapped the book shut, grinning ear to ear. “He’s here! Santa’s here!”
The children stampeded toward the stairs, socks sliding on the steps, palms smacking the railing for balance. Eve’s heart thudded; her breath came in bursts of laughter and gasps as she raced with the others. The door at the top burst open, and they spilled into the light.
The living room had transformed.
Where moments ago the carpet had been bare, a mountain of presents now glittered beneath the tree. Boxes in red and green, bags with curled ribbons, it all shimmered together like something that had grown out of the floor itself. And next to the tree, in Nonna’s armchair, which tonight looked more like a throne, sat Santa Claus.
“Merry Christmas!” Santa boomed, his voice vibrating through the air.
Cheers broke out. Some clapped without meaning to. Others bounced on their toes, faces flushed and glowing. Eve felt her chest swell until she thought she might float away.
Names were called one by one, and each child stepped forward in awe. The littlest were lifted onto his knee, eyes wide as he handed them a wrapped gift. The oldest cousins tried to play it cool but failed, grinning anyway when their names were spoken.
And then, “Eve!”
Hearing her name in Santa’s voice sent a shiver down her legs. She stepped forward, hardly breathing, the room narrowing into a tunnel of light and ribbon. Santa leaned down, eyes twinkling, and placed a red-and-green box into her hands.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Santa smiled and gave her a nod. Before he could linger, Eve’s father stepped forward, clapping his hands. “All right,” he said gently, glancing at the children. “Santa is very busy tonight. So he has to get going.”
The words worked like a cue. Santa gave a weary chuckle and a wink. “Very busy indeed.”
Then came the part that belonged as much to the adults as to the kids. Aunt Rosa went first, flopping onto Santa’s lap with a dramatic sigh, laughing like a teenager as the cousins squealed. Aunt Teresa followed, striking a pose just as the camera flashed. Then Uncle Tony, broad-shouldered and booming, dropped into the chair with such force it let out a sharp crack. Both he and Santa jumped up at once, their faces flashing between alarm and laughter.
The room roared. Children and grown-ups alike doubled over, the whole family caught in the same web of joy.
With a final jingle of the bells and one last booming “HO HO HO,” the door opened, a gust of cold swept through the hallway, and Santa was gone.
For a single beat, silence held the room, as if no one dared breathe, afraid the magic might slip away.
And then, all at once… chaos.
Wrapping paper tore in violent, joyous strips. Bows popped and vanished under furniture; ribbons curled into nests across the rug. Cousins shouted thanks across the room as gifts were revealed.
“THANK YOU, AUNT LINDA!” came from one corner, a sweater dangling down to a cousin’s knees.
“THANK YOU, TONY!” another cried, holding a shiny fire truck overhead.
The answers were shouted back through laughter: “You’re welcome!” “Glad you like it!”
Eve was in the middle of it, her braid half undone, cheeks pink from the heat of the room and her own excitement. She ripped into her boxes with both hands, squealing when a doll tumbled into her lap, then tearing into another to find a book wrapped in shiny green foil. She pressed her face to its new-paper scent, then tossed it aside to attack the next box like the others, shrieking and laughing as the living room filled with treasures.
Parents hovered at the edges with scissors and screwdrivers, freeing toys from impossible packaging. Batteries snapped into place, wheels spun, buttons beeped.
“Don’t lose the pieces!” someone shouted.
The frenzy lasted until the smell of chocolate and coffee drifted in from the dining room, tugging everyone back.
Dessert transformed the table into another feast. Cannoli lay in neat rows, their ends dusted with powdered sugar. Cousin Tracy’s famous Death by Chocolate towered like a monument, rich enough to silence the room for a moment with each first bite.
Children darted between the dessert table and their new toys, sticky fingers leaving smudges on boxes. Adults sipped coffee and leaned into their chairs, the volume of laughter dipping slightly, softer but no less warm.
Eventually, the night began to unspool.
Plates stacked in the sink, crumbs brushed away. Coats were dug out of the heap on the armchair in the front room, the same yearly scavenger hunt. “Is this mine?” someone called, holding up a sleeve. “What does yours look like again?” Another cousin insisted, “Mine’s the pea coat with red buttons!” It never failed; the pile caused confusion before anyone could get out the door.
In the driveway, cars were opened and re-opened, parents shuffling the packages they’d brought in earlier back out to the cars, arranging them like puzzle pieces. One family with a new baby drew the most laughter, struggling to wedge the overabundance of toys and clothes around a car seat and folded stroller.
“Try the back seat!” someone called.
“There’s no room in the back seat!” came the muffled reply.
At the doorway, relatives laughed and shouted advice no one followed. “Take it out of the box!” “Turn it sideways!” Laughter and exasperation filled the air. Eventually, as always, doors slammed, the last bag was forced into place, and parents climbed in, weary but smiling.
Engines rumbled; headlights swept across the snow; tires crunched down the icy driveway. One by one, the cars slipped away until the house, stretched full all night, finally exhaled back into stillness.
Upstairs, Eve brushed her teeth with clumsy strokes, too tired to care about the minty foam dripping down her chin. She tugged on her flannel pajamas and padded into her bedroom, arms heavy with the weight of the night.
Her mother followed, smoothing the blanket up to Eve’s shoulders and tucking it close. She paused, her hand resting gently on her daughter’s hair.
“Goodnight, Eve,” she whispered. “I hope you had a great Christmas.”
Eve’s smile stretched wide, her eyes heavy but still shining. “The best!”
Her mother bent lower, her voice softer. “I love you… to the moon and back.”
“I love you too, Mom,” Eve murmured, her voice drifting as sleep began to pull her under.
Her mother clicked off the light, leaving only the soft glow from the hallway.
Eve curled toward the doll on her nightstand. She carried the night inside her, Santa’s booming laugh, cousins squealing, the star in the frosted window, desserts and laughter still sweet on her tongue. She felt full in a way words couldn’t reach.
And in the next town over, Nicolas Perrin lay in his own bed, wide awake, heart racing with hope and anticipation for what the morning might bring. Eve, by contrast, let sleep take her easily. For her, the magic had already happened, wrapped in the noise and love of her family.
The classroom is too warm, even for December.
The radiator hisses against the wall; the air smells faintly of chalk and old metal. The teacher moves carefully through fractions, stacking numbers on the board in tidy rows. The other students bend over their notebooks, pencils scratching in steady rhythm.
Nicolas, now nine, tries. He really does. He sits at his desk, pencil gripped tight, copying the numbers line by line, until the shapes begin to shift in front of him. The one stretches tall, sprouting antlers, a reindeer charging across his notebook. The zero beside it swells into a snowball, round and perfect. The fraction bar grows longer, wider, until it becomes a horizon with a sleigh streaking across the sky. Without meaning to, he sketches a reindeer with rocket boosters.
He grins to himself, then forces his pencil back to the task. The work isn’t hard. It just… isn’t alive. Not like the things that take shape when he lets his mind wander.
He blinks, and the room returns. He looks toward the windows at the far end of the room, where the sky is pale gray. At first it seems empty, and then tiny snowflakes begin to fall. Not many, just a few, tilting and spinning in slow motion, enough to catch in the bare branches of the oak tree by the fence.
The numbers on the board blur. He watches each flake float down and stick, slow and stubborn, like the world is decorating itself just for him.
Warmth blooms in his chest that has nothing to do with the radiator. He wonders if the snow remembers him.
He whispers, “Hi, snow.”
The chalk squeaks. The teacher keeps talking. Nicolas doesn’t hear a word. His whole body hums with that fizzy anticipation, as if the snow has been waiting for him to notice.
And then the bell rings. Books slam shut. Chairs scrape. The room erupts in motion before the teacher can remind anyone to stay focused. Nicolas blinks once more at the window, tucks his pencil away, and slips into the stream of students rushing for the door.
“Homework first!” his mom calls from the kitchen when he barrels through the back door after school.
“Already did it!” Nicolas answers, which is not true.
His backpack slumps by the stairs, zippers untouched. He snatches up his football and tugs on his mittens, the same red pair his grandfather gave him a few years ago, soft and worn at the edges, and runs out into the yard.
The ground is frozen stiff, a thin layer of snow sugaring the bare patches of lawn while more drifts down. Nicolas plants his feet like the pros and cradles the ball against his chest.
He takes a breath, then calls out in a steady announcer’s voice:
“Perrin at the line. Dolphins down five. Twenty-five seconds on the clock.”
He crouches low, eyes darting left and right at defenders only he can see.
“There’s the snap! Perrin drops back... he’s looking… looking… he launches it deep!”
He throws the ball as high as he can and sprints across the yard, boots thudding against the white-hard ground. With a final thrust of his feet, arms outstretched, he catches it and continues running.
“It’s caught at the thirty! He’s at the twenty… ten… five… touchdown! The Dolphins have won the Super Bowl!”
He spikes the ball into the snow, both arms raised, laughter bursting from his chest. Then he jogs back to the imaginary huddle for the next play.
Inside the kitchen, his mom stirs a pot of spaghetti sauce with the phone tucked between her shoulder and ear. Her voice is warm, but her eyes are on the window.
“Yeah, we’re all set for Christmas,” she says, watching Nicolas loft the ball into the gray air.
Her friend’s voice crackles faintly on the other end:
“Will Nick be at Daniel’s Christmas party this weekend?”
Her hand stills on the spoon.
“Oh… no,” she says quickly. “We’ve got other plans.”
Outside, Nicolas raises the ball again, mittens flashing red, breath puffing white in the cold. He launches another pass into the waiting sky and chases it like everything depends on his legs reaching it in time.
His mother lingers at the window, pride and worry twisting together in her chest.
“Touchdown! What an incredible pass from Perrin!” Nicolas shouts, celebrating all alone as the snow continues to fall.
That night, Nicolas stands in front of his fabric advent calendar. A bare pine tree stitched across the top, its branches waiting to be filled. Below it, numbered pockets hold small Christmas symbols, a bell, a star, a snowflake, a candy cane, each with a patch of velcro on the back.
He slips his hand into the pocket marked fourteen and pulls out a tiny felt stocking. Carefully, he peels it free, then presses it onto the pine tree above. It sticks with a soft rip of velcro.
The tree is filling now, brighter each night. Nicolas smiles at the sight, then climbs into bed, his mittens resting on the nightstand beside him, fingers curled like they are waiting for morning.
His mom comes in, brushes his hair back with her hand.
“Almost there,” she whispers, glancing at the advent calendar.
“Almost,” Nicolas murmurs, eyes heavy.
She sits on the edge of the bed.
“Hey, can I ask you something?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Has Daniel… or any of the boys… said anything about a Christmas party this weekend?”
Nicolas shrugs. “Nope...” he says, turning to his side. “Daniel and those guys don’t really talk to me anymore.”
“Why not?” she asks softly.
Nicolas shrugs again, pulling the blanket higher under his chin. “Not sure. They’re not really into wrestling and cartoons anymore like me, I guess.” He answers without sadness, like it’s just a fact, and snuggles deeper into his blanket.
She kisses the top of his head.
“I see.” a beat. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”
She stands slowly, her eyes drifting to the mittens on the nightstand, the advent tree on the wall. Her hand lingers on the doorknob longer than it needs to.
When she finally pulls the door shut, her chest aches with the weight of things she can’t fix.
The gymnasium smells like peppermint hand soap and dust.
Not the bad kind of dust, the kind that lives in decoration boxes and the forgotten corners of coat closets, the kind that clings to garland.
It floats in the warm light from the windows, golden and soft, dancing through the air like it’s part of the celebration.
Nicolas walks in holding a drawing of Santa Claus. It’s folded twice and the crayon has smudged near the beard, but he doesn’t care. It’s perfect. Santa’s sleigh has rocket boosters. The reindeer are wearing sunglasses. And if you look close, there’s a trail of stardust behind them that he made with silver glitter glue.
He holds it against his chest like it’s something alive.
The gym is already buzzing. Kids pour in by the dozens - some with jingle bell necklaces, some wearing antlers made from brown construction paper. A few hold holiday crafts like his, the edges bent, colors bright. Teachers are everywhere, waving arms and raising eyebrows, trying to herd energy into something vaguely organized.
Paper snowflakes hang from the ceiling. Streamers flutter on the walls. The speaker in the corner plays a slightly-too-slow version of “Jingle Bells,” crackling once as if even it knows how old it is.
Nicolas smiles at everything. He can feel the excitement in his fingers. The air feels fizzy. Like it’s full of invisible bells.
He walks with his class to their spot on the floor and sits crisscross applesauce, knees bumping gently against the kids beside him. The floor is cold through his jeans, but he doesn’t mind. Not today. Not on the last day before Christmas break.
A teacher hands out song sheets as someone sneezes. Someone else giggles. But Nicolas just stares up at the lights on the ceiling, where a string of tinsel catches the sun and sends little stars across the gym floor.
He holds his drawing close, closes his eyes for a second, and whispers something only the paper can hear. Then he looks up, ready.
A hush falls, slow and soft.
One of the music teachers steps forward and lifts her arm. The lights above the gym flicker gently as the last few voices quiet down. A boy near the front coughs once. Then silence.
A click. A crackle. Then the speaker begins to play the opening notes of Silent Night.
Nicolas doesn’t need the song sheet in his lap. He already knows every word. Every note. But he holds it carefully, like it’s part of a ceremony - something sacred you don’t rush.
He takes a small breath. Just enough to steady himself.
And sings.
The words fall from his lips like snowflakes - slow, deliberate, soft around the edges.
“All is calm… all is bright…”
Around him, other voices join in, but he doesn’t hear them all. Not really. The sound is there - filling the room - but his focus is somewhere else entirely.
It’s the light reflecting off the tinsel. The way it catches in slow, golden pulses.
The soft rustle of paper snowflakes swaying from the rafters.
Bells that someone shakes - gently, almost shyly - near the back of the room.
It’s the warm bloom in his chest. Like something is lighting up from the inside. Like the song is singing through him.
He doesn’t understand it - but he doesn’t need to. He just knows this is real. This is good. This is his.
A smile forms, quiet and steady. The gym fades. The voices, the room, even the cold beneath him… they all slip away like a coat falling from his shoulders.
And what’s left is that hum. That stillness. That glow.
He is part of something.
Something vast and unseen, but close enough to feel.
And in the center of it all, a boy with his glittery Santa drawing pressed into his lap sings softly under a ceiling of paper snowflakes - heart wide open, eyes bright, and wonder alive in every breath.
The second verse begins.
“All is calm… all is bright…”
Nicolas’s voice is quiet, but steady. The notes rest on his tongue like something familiar and treasured. His hands sit folded in his lap, fingers loosely intertwined over the wrinkled edge of his Santa drawing.
And for a moment, it’s just the song. The hum in his chest. The warmth rising like a secret between his ribs.
Overhead, the HVAC clinks on, and the paper snowflakes stir. Nicolas glances to the side.
Just for a second.
Daniel, the boy beside him, is mouthing the words without sound, his eyes half-lidded. He leans backward slightly, rocking side to side like he’s making fun of a lullaby. His paper antlers are crumpled.
Nicolas looks further back. Two girls are giggling behind their song sheets. One pretends to fall asleep, her head slumping onto her friend’s shoulder.
A boy with his hoodie pulled halfway up flips a paper snowflake in slow circles against the floor.
The song plays on. But it sounds different now. Not bad. Just… thinner.
Nicolas turns forward again. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t stop singing. But his voice is quieter now. Like maybe the moment needs protecting.
He shifts his drawing in his lap, smoothing the fold across Santa’s rocket sleigh.
He keeps his eyes fixed on the music teacher as she coaxes the scattered voices into something resembling a song. She glances at Nicolas and, with a smile as soft as snowfall, gives the slightest nod. His shoulders ease; the weight slips. In that glance, an unspoken pact: she, too, still walks inside the hush and glow. For a heartbeat, he isn’t alone.
He keeps singing. But he is acutely aware that something has shifted.
Something he can’t name.
Like a window cracked open in the middle of a warm room.
And the hum… it’s still there. Just not as loud.
The song ends, not all at once, but like a dream fading.
The last few notes drift into the air and disappear somewhere near the rafters.
Applause rises - loose and uneven. A few kids clap with both hands. Some just slap their palms on their knees. One boy yells, “We’re free!” and gets a pointed look from a teacher.
Nicolas doesn’t move right away. He’s still sitting crisscross on the floor, hands folded over the drawing in his lap.
The lights blink above him - soft gold, steady red. The paper snowflakes twist slowly in the heat from the vents.
He looks down. The drawing of Santa Claus is bent slightly at the corners now. The reindeer’s antlers are creased. And near the bottom, where the trail of glitter glue once shimmered like a comet…
Some of the sparkle is gone.
Tiny flecks of silver have flaked loose, scattering across his lap and onto the gym floor.
He stares at them for a second. Then opens his hand.
With the other, he brushes the loose glitter gently - carefully - into his palm.
It’s clumsy; most of it falls away, but a few bits land, tiny stars, glimmering dust.
He closes his fingers around them and holds them tight.
Around him, the gym swells with motion - kids laughing, teachers calling out reminders, the scrape of benches and the creak of the loudspeaker starting up again.
But Nicolas doesn’t rush.
He folds the drawing once, then again, and slips it carefully into the inside pocket of his coat.
Then he rises.
The glitter rests in his hand - warm now, from the heat of his skin.
He doesn’t open his fingers. He just lets it stay there, a quiet secret.
As he walks out of the gym, a snowflake decoration flutters from the ceiling and brushes his shoulder.
The hallway is full of noise again - zippers, boots squeaking, lockers slamming open and shut. A teacher somewhere reminds everyone to pack up their crafts. Someone is laughing. Someone’s singing.
But Nicolas barely hears it.
He walks a little behind the others. Not because he’s tired. Just because… he wants to feel the quiet a little longer.
He shifts the drawing in his coat. Presses it flat with his hand.
His other hand is still closed.
He walks slowly, carefully, like if he moves too fast, the magic might spill.
The door to his classroom is open. A coat hook waits with his name on it.
“See you tomorrow, Daniel!” someone shouts across the hallway.
Nicolas is unfazed.
He steps inside. He closes his eyes for a second. Breathes in the smell of paper and pine. Feels the drawing in his coat. Feels the glitter in his hand.
And smiles. Small. Still. Certain.
Then he opens his hand - just a little - and lets the silver fall gently into the pocket of his coat, so he can carry the wonder just a little longer.
The highway hummed beneath them, steady and low, a sound that seemed to live in the bones if you listened long enough. Snowflakes spilled through the headlights in endless sheets, bright for an instant, then gone. The windshield wipers moved in their slow arc, leaving streaks that blurred the world beyond into long smears of red and white.
Every so often, a cluster of houses appeared, glowing with colored bulbs or single candles in the windows. Then the road swallowed them again, giving way to wide stretches of dark woods. The ride home from her aunt’s house was nearly an hour, most of it a rhythm of light and absence, color and shadow.
In the back seat, Eve sat curled toward the door. Her coat hung half-open, her scarf loose, one mitten forgotten on her lap. In her palm, a ribbon from one of her gifts coiled and uncoiled. She wound it tight until her finger flushed red, then let it slip loose, repeating the motion as if her hands were keeping time with her thoughts.
The car was warm, the heater blowing in steady breaths. The windows fogged in wide halos, then cleared, over and over, as though the car itself was breathing along with them. From the backseat, the scent of garlic and tomato sauce slipped from tinfoil-topped containers, mingling with the sweetness of cookies in a tin. And beneath it all lingered the faintest trace of pine and cinnamon, a quiet reminder that another Christmas Eve had come and gone.
Her parents spoke softly in the front. She couldn’t make out all the words, but she knew the cadences by heart, the way her dad leaned forward, turning his head to the side, before changing lanes, the way her mom’s laugh slid out like a secret when he said something only for her.
For a long while, Eve said nothing. She let her gaze drift to the side window, where the snow looked less like falling and more like rising, like they were driving through stars instead of weather.
Finally she broke the silence. “Mom?”
Her voice wasn’t loud, but it lifted both their heads.
Her mother turned in her seat, half-twisted toward her, her face caught in the glow of the dashboard. A strand of hair had slipped loose across her cheek. Her eyes were soft, waiting.
Eve looked at her for a moment, then back to the window. The snow tumbled upward in the glass. She said it plainly, like naming the date or telling the time:
“I know Santa isn’t real.”
The words hung in the air, quiet and enormous.
Her father’s hands tightened on the wheel, the tendons in his wrists standing out. He didn’t speak.
Her mother’s lips parted, then closed again. She drew in a breath that began like laughter but left her as a sigh instead. In the dim light her eyes shone, too wet to hide.
“Oh, honey,” she said softly. Not the kind of oh that denied or argued. Just the kind that meant I hear you.
Eve waited. She thought she’d feel something collapse inside her, sadness, maybe, or the hollow everyone always spoke of when magic was gone. For an instant, she felt a sting in her chest, quick and sharp. But then it slipped away. What filled her instead was something steadier.
She sat taller, shoulders pressed against the seat. “I figured it out,” she said, and the words carried pride.
The memory came back sharp, as though her mind had stored it away on purpose.
Santa had been planted in Nonna’s armchair, the red suit stretched snug across his belly, the beard puffed out like a pillow. His laugh filled the room too big, booming and bright, echoing louder than it needed to.
When Eve stepped forward for her turn, she didn’t bounce like the younger cousins. She moved smoothly, almost serious, like she was walking into a test she meant to pass.
Santa patted his knee. “Come here, Eve!”
She climbed up carefully, folding her hands in her lap. Her head tilted, her eyes narrowing, not dazzled, not impressed, just curious.
“Did you get my letter?” she asked.
The question rippled across the room, too small for anyone else to notice, but sharp in its aim.
Santa’s laugh burst out instantly, practiced. “Well of course!” he boomed.
But Eve hadn’t written one this year. Not a list. Not a note. Not even a quick hello. The smile that tugged at her lips was invisible to the crowd but undeniable to her.
The camera flashed, freezing the moment for the family photo album, but the real picture was tucked away inside Eve’s mind, a piece of evidence saved for later.
The ribbon tightened around her finger in the car until the skin blushed deep pink. Ahead, the taillights of other cars stretched like a string of red beads across the dark highway.
“He said he got my letter,” she murmured. Triumph edged her voice. “But I didn’t write one.”
Her mother turned halfway in her seat, lips pressed tight, her eyes wet though she tried to steady them. Her father let out a sound low in his chest, half breath, half laugh, and swallowed it before it escaped. He reached to adjust the heater, then didn’t, his hand hovering a second in midair.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was thick, like the kitchen air just before the oven door opens. Eve was warmed by the knowledge that the first crack in the story had been hers to find.
Santa’s lap wasn’t the throne of wonder it used to be. Eve sat neatly, hands folded, her eyes roaming the room like she was counting pieces on a game board.
She counted.
Uncle Tony by the fireplace, scarf thrown over his shoulder, gesturing like a man telling a fish story. Check.
Uncle Sal, laughing and arguing about whose car would be stuck in the drive, jangling his keys like proof. Check.
Older cousins, lined along the hallway arch, pretending to be too old to care while angling for the best view. Check.
Her father at the kitchen doorway, her mother right beside him, both smiling wider than the moment called for. Check and check.
Every man accounted for. Not one missing.
A frown pinched her face, brief as a heartbeat, before she smoothed it away. Maybe the trick was cleverer than she’d thought.
Then Santa shifted. A glimpse of boots beneath the red pants, black, heavy, scuffed, laces shoved into the tops instead of tied. White salt stains catching the light. One eyelet showed a dot of bare metal, like a tiny silver wink. She noticed, but didn’t claim it as proof. Just another detail, saved like a bead in a pocket.
“Thank you,” she said sweetly when he pressed a box into her hands. She felt the ridges of the cardboard through the paper. She smiled for the camera again, but her mind was still counting.
On her way back to the couch she passed Aunt Jan, who bent to kiss her head; the smell of her perfume, powdery roses, lingered a second around Eve’s cheek. She sat, smoothing her skirt, and laid the gift in her lap like evidence waiting its turn.
Back in the car, Eve dropped her gaze to her own boots, edges white with dried salt. Melted snow pooled in shallow puddles on the mat. She nudged one toe against the other, then leaned forward, her voice low but certain.
“I counted everyone. All the uncles. Dad. Even my cousins. Nobody was missing.”
Her father’s eyes flicked to the mirror, then back to the road. Her mother turned in her seat, her mouth pulled into a thin smile.
“You really were paying attention,” she said softly.
Eve let out a single breath of laughter through her nose, pleased. “Of course I was.”
Streetlamps passed overhead, spilling their glow through the windows in bursts. Each one lit her reflection for a moment before sliding past, like a series of brief acknowledgments.
The box Santa had given her earlier had felt solid, sharp-edged beneath the paper. She’d noticed the design as the flashbulb went off: white paper printed with candy canes and green sprigs of holly.
At the time, it hadn’t meant much. Another tag scrawled From Santa.
But later, after dessert plates had been stacked in the sink and laughter had softened into smaller pockets around the room, she saw it again.
Her mother placed a gift into Grandpa’s lap.
Eve froze. The same white paper. The same candy canes leaning at the same angle. The same green holly leaves printed across the same slant.
Her mother’s tongue pressed into her cheek as she smoothed the seam flat with her thumb, just as she always did when wrapping.
Eve sat straighter, her chest lifting. Her heart didn’t drop. It leapt. The Santa paper and the Grandpa paper were one and the same. Another piece fit cleanly into place.
The ribbon slipped loose from her pocket in the car. She looped it back around her finger, watching the deep groove it left in her skin.
“The paper matched,” she said suddenly. Her voice carried no sorrow, only the pride of a detective revealing evidence. “Santa’s gift to me was wrapped in the same paper Mom used for Grandpa’s.”
Her mother’s breath escaped in a sound caught between laugh and sigh. She didn’t speak right away.
“You noticed that?” she asked finally, her face catching the glow of the dash.
Eve nodded. Her eyes stayed on the snowfall racing toward them. “Yeah.”
Her father’s hands eased on the wheel. He said nothing, but in the mirror she caught the faintest pull of his mouth, pride hidden where he thought she wouldn’t see.
Eve pressed back into her seat. Outside, the highway looked the same, dark stretches, endless snow, but inside she felt older, as though she had passed a test no one knew she was taking.
The house was exhaling by the time she bent to pull on her boots. Voices called across rooms about missing gloves. Plastic containers snapped shut in the kitchen. The scent of coffee mingled with the sweet smoke of a candle nearly burned down.
And there they were.
Black work boots tucked against the wall. Heavy, scuffed, laces shoved down into the tops. A crust of fake snow clinging stubbornly at the seams.
Her mitten stilled midair. She had seen them earlier beneath the suit.
A moment later Marco appeared, his hair damp, his cheeks flushed. He bent, scooped the boots up by their tongues, gave them a shake, and walked back to the kitchen where her cousin was waiting.
Eve’s eyes followed him, unwavering.
The puzzle locked.
Not an uncle. Not her dad. Marco. Her cousin’s boyfriend.
The final piece belonged to her.
She zipped her coat and stood, taller than she had when she’d walked in. Not disappointed. Not heartbroken. Triumphant.
She had solved it.
The tires thrummed beneath them, the heater purred. Snow poured through the headlights in restless streaks. The heater blew against Eve’s legs, warm enough to make her drowsy, though her mind was alive and sharp.
She pressed her palms together, still damp from melted snow. For a long stretch she said nothing. Then, quietly, she broke the silence.
“The boots were Marco’s.”
Her father’s eyes flicked to her in the mirror, her mother twisting in her seat. Neither looked surprised, but something passed between them, sorrow and pride, tangled.
“I saw him pick them up when we were leaving,” Eve said. Her voice was calm, even. “The fake snow was still on them. It was him. I knew it.”
Her father turned back to the road, jaw tight. His thumb worried the seam on the steering wheel, a habit Eve knew meant he was holding words back. Her mother’s lips trembled into a smile that carried both ache and admiration.
The silence thickened again, but this time Eve welcomed it. She leaned into it, let it surround her like a blanket.
“Do you want to talk about it?” her mother asked.
Eve shook her head, her eyes fixed on the glass, where the world outside hurried past.
The ache came briefly, sharp, fleeting, like a note lingering after a song ends. Then her mind unspooled the night, filling the space.
Her cousins shrieking, voices loud enough to rattle the picture frames. Wrapping paper flying in red and green storms, ribbons curling across the carpet like vines. The sound of tape being found and lost and found again, the squeak of the dispenser like a small bird. Her aunts spilling from the kitchen, flushed, one of them laughing so hard she bent double, dabbing tears with a dish towel. A smear of sauce shining on Uncle Tony’s cheek. A baby’s sock abandoned under the coffee table like a tiny flag.
The smells returned in waves, garlic melting in oil, tomatoes simmering thick on the stove, powdered sugar dusting the air above a tray of cannoli. The clove-prickle of mulled wine. Even the sweetness of chocolate still clung to her tongue, the heavy, satisfying kind that made the whole table hush for a beat.
Her uncles in the hallway, arms loaded with tubs, shouting and laughing as they tried to wedge leftovers into the fridge. Someone sneaking a meatball, grinning when caught, forgiven with a wave of a spoon and a “go on, then.” The scrape of chairs, the clink of forks on plates, the chorus of “Did you try the Nutella Christmas tree?” passing from room to room like a tide.
And her parents, her father balancing a plate while his arm circled her mother’s shoulders. Her mother leaning into him, her face tired but luminous, eyes glowing warmer than the tree. His hand squeezed her shoulder without either of them looking; hers found his wrist and rested there like it had been made to fit. That image burned brightest, the anchor of it all.
Eve closed her eyes and held it, let it fill her until the ache dissolved. Warmth rose in its place, rich and steady, spreading until she felt taller than the seat could hold. She pictured herself next year handing out the gifts, reading the tags without mixing them up, taping the seams straight, sneaking a meatball and getting away with it because now she’d be in on the joke. The thought made her smile.
She opened her eyes to the blur of taillights stretching ahead. The snow drifted thick and slow now, the kind that settles and stays. In the glass, her reflection looked back, familiar, but older, a certainty added around the eyes.
Her mother’s hand reached back between the seats. Eve lifted her mittened fingers and tapped it three times: one, two, three. Their secret code.
The headlights carved a bright tunnel into the night. The car moved forward, steady, carrying them home.
Eve sat upright, her smile steady, the warmth of the night burning quietly inside her.
The mall was overflowing with Christmas, a storm of light and sound that swallowed the air.
Lights looped across railings three stories high, strands of gold and green spilling over the edges like shimmering ivy. Garlands hung heavy between columns, shedding faint glitter when someone brushed past. A thousand bulbs blinked at once, chasing each other along banisters and pillars, reflecting in the polished tile like scattered stars.
Nicolas didn’t see the chaos; his red mittens swung from their clips as he moved, eyes darting from shimmer to shimmer as though each one carried a secret meant only for him.
He liked it better this way. When he looked too closely, the mall felt crowded and tired, people rushing, bumping, sighing. But if he let his mind tilt just slightly, everything bent into magic. The lights weren’t bulbs, they were stars. The noise wasn’t irritation, it was proof the world was alive.
The fountain at the center had been drained and filled with a mound of fake snow, the kind that shone too white under fluorescent lights, too perfect to fool anyone but a child. A plastic sleigh perched on top, frozen in mid-flight, its runners gleaming like steel blades. Nicolas stopped to look at it for a moment. He knew it wasn’t real, he could see the wires, the molded plastic snow, the reindeer’s eyes that were nothing but glass marbles set too deep. But that didn’t matter. It was a replica of a dream, and that was enough.
The air itself was a chorus of smells: cinnamon from the pretzel stand, buttery popcorn from the kiosk, sharp perfume leaking from a department store doorway. Somewhere, a blender whirred, mixing fruit into foam, its buzz crawling under the carols that dripped endlessly from the ceiling speakers. Every sound layered onto the next: the shuffle of boots on tile, the squeak of stroller wheels, the rise and fall of voices, the constant bells of cash registers and credit card readers beeping approval.
But in the middle of it all, Santa’s workshop glowed, a little world unto itself.
An archway of candy canes leaned above a red carpet, its edges dusted with more plastic snow. Stiff-necked, glossy-eyed reindeer stretched toward the ceiling as if caught mid-leap. Oversized ornaments dangled from wires, swaying faintly whenever a draft wandered through. And at the center of it all sat Santa, his red suit brighter than anything else in sight, his white gloves folded in his lap, his beard shining under the glow of a spotlight that hummed faintly when it flickered.
Nicolas, now twelve, bounced in place, his chest humming with that familiar fizzy anticipation, as if the whole world was charged with electricity.
Sometimes he felt like the only one who still carried that hum. Other kids his age wanted video games, sneakers, afternoons at the mall without their parents. He wanted this. And he didn’t even mind that it set him apart. At least, he told himself he didn’t.
The line stretched back farther than he could see, a river of people inching forward. Parents shifted shopping bags from one arm to the other, children whining and tugging at their sleeves. Babies cried, coats slipped, a father balanced three cups of coffee like trophies, steam curling up from the lids. But Nicolas saw none of that. He just saw the magic. He saw the elves in their green vests, the steady flash of the camera, the reindeer poised for flight. Every piece of it was alive, just waiting for him to notice.
Lucy sighed beside him, her arms crossed tight. She leaned toward their mom, her braid falling across her shoulder. “Do we really have to do this? We’re too old for Santa pictures.”
Their mom smoothed Nicolas’s hat, brushing a bit of hair from his forehead. “Lucy,” she said softly, her voice full of gentle patience, “your brother still believes.”
Lucy rolled her eyes, but didn’t argue. Instead, she looked up at the candy-cane arch. One of the canes leaned slightly off-center, its curve not quite matching the rest.
“That one’s crooked,” she muttered.
Nicolas studied it, tilting his head. “It’s supposed to be,” he said with certainty, as if it was a known fact. “Candy canes are like compasses. The red stripe always leans toward the North Pole. If it stood straight, Santa wouldn’t know which way to go when he leaves.”
Lucy’s mouth twitched, just barely. She turned her head, pretending to look at a gingerbread stand, but Nicolas knew she was smiling.
Lucy tried to poke holes, but the holes only made his light shine through brighter. For a second, she even seemed to enjoy it.
The line crept forward. At the front, another family stepped onto the red carpet. One of the elves bent low, leaned close to Santa, and whispered before pulling back.
“See?” Lucy nudged Nicolas. “She tells him their names. That’s how he knows them.”
Nicolas leaned closer, his voice low and serious. “She’s not telling him names. She’s telling him how bright their glow is. Elves can see it... the glow kids have when they still believe. Santa already knows their names. He just needs to know how strong the glow is.”
He wanted it to be true so badly that it felt true. Sometimes he wondered if that was what belief really was, not proof, not evidence, but the way your heart tilted toward the story instead of away from it.
Lucy’s eyes flicked back to the chair, following the elf, considering. For a second, her brow softened. The flicker of something in her eyes, a question she didn’t voice, was enough. He saw it. And it was all he needed to keep going.
Another shuffle forward. Two toddlers clutched jingle-bell necklaces that rattled with every step. Santa’s laugh boomed as they scrambled into his lap, the bells jangling in time with his “Ho ho ho!”
Lucy tilted her head toward Nicolas again, her voice sly but quiet. “If this is the real Santa, then who was the one outside the toy shop last week? Or the grocery store? There’s too many.”
Nicolas didn’t flinch. “Those aren’t Santas. They’re observers. He sends them out to see who still notices him. Who waves, who smiles. And then they bring it back to him, so he always knows who still believes.”
Lucy let out a laugh she hadn’t meant to, covering her mouth with her glove. She shook her head, but her eyes shone brighter.
The line shuffled again. Nicolas craned his neck toward the escalator... and froze.
Three boys walked across the second-floor balcony, they were loud, careless, their laughter spilling over the railing like stones dropped into a pond. Two of them had once been his friends, though they hadn’t spoken to him in over a year.
They’d stopped calling his house. Stopped waiting for him at recess. One day he was part of their games, and the next he wasn’t, and no one had explained why. He still saw them in the hallways at school, always together, always laughing. And now here they were, bigger somehow, older, arms full of shopping bags, looking like they belonged in a world he hadn’t been invited into.
They leaned on the railing, shoving each other, pointing at the sneaker store below. They didn’t glance once at Santa’s glowing archway, or the children bouncing in line, not even the reindeer poised mid-flight.
And why would they? They were done with this part of childhood. They had peeled it off like an old coat, while Nicolas still clung to it with both hands. To them, he’d look like a baby here, waiting in line with his mom, mittens dangling from his sleeves, eyes shining like he couldn’t help himself. If they saw him, they’d laugh. They wouldn’t even mean to be cruel, but they would laugh. And that would be worse.
A cold knot formed in his stomach. He ducked behind a marble column, pressing his shoulder to the stone. His heart thudded so loudly he was sure Lucy could hear it. For a moment, he wished he could vanish into the floor.
It wasn’t just embarrassment. It was the fear of being found out, that the part of him that still believed, the part that whispered to the snow and spun stories out of crooked candy canes, would be dragged into the open and torn apart. If they saw him like this, if they pointed, it would be ruined. And he couldn’t afford to lose it. Not this. Not the one thing that still made him feel lit up inside.
The boys’ laughter trailed off as they disappeared toward the escalator. The sound dissolved back into the carols and chatter of the mall, but the echo of it stayed in Nicolas’s chest.
He pressed his back harder to the column, feeling the chill of the stone seep into him, until the line nudged forward again. Slowly, he stepped out from hiding. The lights shimmered off the polished floor, tugging him back into their spell, urging him forward.
Lucy tugged her glove higher, nodding toward another elf scribbling on a clipboard. “She’s not doing anything special. She’s just keeping the order.”
Nicolas grinned, leaning closer. “Not just the order. She’s writing down the things kids say in line in case one of them is too shy to ask for what they really want. Elves hear those, and Santa gets them on the list.”
Lucy burst into laughter, the kind that bubbled up and shook her shoulders. She shook her head again, but she couldn’t hide the smile spreading across her face.
That smile was everything. He wanted to hold it, keep it, tuck it away like the glitter from his drawing at school. If Lucy could smile at his stories, maybe she hadn’t left the magic behind completely. Maybe no one ever really did.
And then, suddenly, it was their turn.
The world seemed to slow, the chaos of the mall fading into a soft hum. Nicolas stepped forward onto the red carpet, the plush fabric giving slightly under his weight. The lights seemed to get brighter. The air smelled of gingerbread.
He stood beside Santa Claus, close enough to feel the warmth of his sleeve, close enough to smell the faint peppermint woven into the fabric.
Santa leaned slightly, his voice warm and low, the voice Nicolas carried in the back of his mind all year. “And what would you like for Christmas, young man?”
Nicolas swallowed, his heart pounding against his ribs. He thought of the boys on the balcony, of their laughter echoing down like a reminder that he didn’t belong with them anymore. He thought of Lucy’s smirk, her rolling eyes, the way she tried so hard to convince herself the magic wasn’t real.
He leaned closer, his voice almost breaking with how small it was. “Can you make Lucy believe again?”
Santa’s eyes flickered. His blue eyes, magnified by his glasses, were kind, but also surprised. He didn’t speak. He just looked at Nicolas, and in that look, Nicolas felt something he hadn’t realized he was desperate for: to be understood.
It wasn’t just about Lucy. It was about not wanting to be the only one left. About wanting someone else to feel what he felt, the buzz in his chest when the lights blinked, the way the world seemed to hum on nights like this. He wanted to share it. He wanted his sister to see it too.
Santa’s gloved hand came down gently on his shoulder, steady and firm, as though anchoring him in place. Nicolas’s throat tightened.
For parents watching, it would look like nothing more than a boy whispering into Santa’s ear, maybe too shy to say what toy he wanted out loud. But for Nicolas, and for anyone who had ever wished they could hold their child’s wonder a little longer, it was truly the only thing he wanted.
Nicolas hesitated, then added quickly, his voice trembling into something almost hopeful: “Oh, and if you can… could you make it snow soon?”
From behind the camera, their mom chuckled softly, breaking the hush. “Nic, it’s not even November yet.”
Lucy smirked, shaking her head as the flash went off.
They filed out, weaving through the crowd and spilling into the night. The cold hit immediately, sharp and clear. The lamps in the parking lot burned yellow against the sky, wide halos in the dark. Their boots clicked against the pavement as they crossed to the car, bags swinging from their arms.
Inside the car, the heater hummed, a soft, steady sound. Their breath fogged the windows until they cleared again. The mall lights shrank behind them, swallowed by the dark.
Nicolas leaned his forehead to the glass, watching the sky. He was still carrying the weight of the moment, the way Santa’s hand had pressed on his shoulder like a promise.
And then, a single snowflake caught in the beam of the headlights, tumbling once before melting away.
Then another.
And another.
Until the road ahead glittered with a slow, steady fall, the first snow of the season, drifting down like it had been waiting for this exact moment.
Nicolas’s chest leapt. He pressed his palm to the window, making a small circle of clear glass in the fog, a perfect frame for the falling snow. His heart swelled until it felt too big to hold.
“Well, would you look at that,” their mom murmured. Her voice soft, as though she too, felt the timing was almost too perfect.
Lucy turned toward the glass. The flakes spun in the headlights, bright as stars. For a second, she was still, her lips parted, her eyes wide.
And then she whispered it. So soft he almost didn’t catch it.
“Hi, snow.”
Nicolas froze, breath caught in his throat. His whole body hummed. For one heartbeat, he wasn’t alone. For one heartbeat, she believed too.
He turned toward her, desperate to see that look again.
But Lucy was already gone. She had pulled her hood up, slid her headphones over her ears, and leaned back against the seat, her gaze sinking into the glow of her phone. Not a word. Not a glance.
The ache of it stung Nicolas’s chest, but he knew she’d felt it, even if only for a breath.
He pressed his hand against the cold glass, as if he could hold the moment there. But it slipped anyway. And then, unexpectedly, tears came, flowing, faster than he could stop them.
They weren’t for himself.
He wept for the children who forgot too soon, who traded their glow for sneakers and screens and laughter that never reached their eyes. He wept for his old friends, who once built forts and chased snowflakes with him, but now walked past the magic without even seeing it.
And most of all, he wept for Lucy.
Because she had believed. He’d felt it when she whispered to the snow, when her eyes had gone wide and soft and shining. For one heartbeat, she’d been there with him, inside the story. And then, just as quickly, she was gone. Vanished into the glow of a phone that could never glow the way the world did.
The unbearable part wasn’t that she no longer believed. It was knowing the magic was still inside her. Nicolas was certain of it. He believed it lived in everyone, that quiet hum, that warmth in the chest that could make the ordinary extraordinary. But the world didn’t make space for it. People were told to grow up, to move faster, to look down at lists and phones instead of up at the stars. And slowly, without meaning to, they stopped looking for it.
But the magic wasn’t gone. It was only buried. Waiting.
And Nicolas’s tears slid down his cheeks, like the whole world was mourning through him, mourning for the wonder still hidden inside every heart, a wonder most would never uncover again.
And in that truth, a shiver passed through him: because he knew that one day, unless he fought with everything he had, even he would lose it too... and he might not even realize it was gone, until it was too late.