Midwinter's Eve: Chapter Five
For One Heartbeat, Lucy Believed Again
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.
So well written. The innocence of childhood so well captured in your words. Everyone should read this book 🌹
Vanished into the glow of a phone that could never glow the way the world did. Great quote!