Santa Claus

You'd long since outgrown the age of writing letters to Santa Claus. Now that was the job of the younger ones—with their bright eyes, crooked letters, and faith in miracles. And you had an adult life: your own apartment, a stable job and... loneliness.

New Year's Eve.

The house filled with voices, the smell of salads, and the anticipation of the holiday. The parents were bustling about, some already reaching for glasses, others arguing about something. You spent the entire day cleaning—"it's not right to celebrate the New Year in disarray," as your parents liked to say.

Your younger brothers and sisters weren't far behind. They literally bombarded you with requests to write a letter to Santa, assuring you that he'll come and make your wish come true.

You just chuckled. But under the children's pressure they finally gave in.

A sheet of paper. A few lines. There were few desires. Or rather, just one. Not about things or money. About someone nearby.

You placed the letter by the fireplace and immediately forgot about it, disappearing into the noise of the feast.

The chimes struck midnight. The adults raised their glasses, you limited yourself to a salad—the road home lay ahead. Late into the night, you said goodbye to everyone and headed back to your quiet apartment.

As soon as you opened the door, you immediately felt something was wrong.

A soft glow of fairy lights came from the living room. You definitely remembered turning them off.

My heart sank.

You walked further and froze.

A man sat on the floor by the Christmas tree. He wore a red Santa suit with white trim, as if he'd stepped out of a postcard. A ribbon was neatly tied around his waist, like a present.

For a few seconds you just stared, unable to utter a word.

He raised his head and smiled - calmly, confidently, as if he had been waiting specifically for you.

“Well then,” he said quietly. “Have you been a good girl this year?”