Midwinter's Eve: Chapter Three
When childhood begins to drift away, wonder holds on... and love watches, aching but helpless.
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.
I saw this through advertisement and i like it
Such a wonderful story. Makes you want to be that child again.