Midwinter’s Eve: Chapter One

A story of love, loss, and the quiet magic that waits to be remembered.

Sep 08, 2025

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.