A Christmas Fairytale

Christmas Eve is hushed and still,
Yet whispers stir the night.
A breath of magic fills the air,
A season’s gentle light.

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It was Christmas Eve.

When I rose that morning, it seemed no different from any other day in that long, grey winter. The frost had come in the night, laying its glittering cloak upon the garden, the car, and even the forgotten toys my children had left on the driveway. The air through the windowpane was sharp and cold; I shivered until I drew my dressing gown close, wrapping myself in its warmth.

The house was quiet, the kind of silence you only hear when the rest of the family are still asleep. I shuffled into the kitchen, yawning, and reached for the kettle. No day begins properly, for me, without the rich promise of coffee. The spoon clinked against the mug, the granules tumbling like dark treasure, the kettle hissed and sighed, and soon the air was filled with that familiar, comforting aroma.

“Coffee’s coming,” I told myself, as though it were a dear friend on its way.

I sat at the breakfast bar, steaming mug in hand, and reached for the remote. Our old television, slow to wake, hummed and flickered before the picture swam into view. And then—my heart gave a jolt.

There, staring directly at me from the screen, was a face I knew better than any newsreader’s. A face round and rosy, eyes twinkling like starlight, and a smile as broad as a child’s delight.

“Father Christmas,” I breathed.

I rubbed my eyes, convinced it was a trick of the morning, but when I flicked through the channels, he was there on each one, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

“Surely it must be some Christmas stunt,” I muttered. “A charity broadcast, or a seasonal greeting.”

But then I noticed something odd. The kettle had boiled, yes, the mug in my hand was warm, yes—but the television, the old set that I had switched on with my own hand—was not plugged into the wall.

I stared, bewildered. With a trembling thumb I pressed the red button, and the screen went black. A sigh of relief escaped me.

Then, from behind me, came a voice.

“If that’s what you think, who am I to argue?”

The voice was warm, and old, and filled with something I could not name.

“Who’s there?” I whispered.

“Look up, Jeremiah,” said the voice. “Look up, and see the face of Christmas.”

And I did. And there he was again, alive within the screen, smiling and waving. In my shock I stumbled, the mug shattered on the floor, coffee spilling like spilt ink.

“Is it really you?” I gasped.

“It most certainly is,” said Father Christmas. His voice rolled like a hearth-fire, gentle yet unshakable. “But I am here for your eyes only.”

In that moment, I remembered. I remembered the Christmases of my childhood—the sparkle of snow in the lamplight, the impossible hope that any wonder might come true, the pure belief that the world was magical. Somewhere along the way, that enchantment had slipped from me. I had grown busy, grown older, and forgotten.

He saw it in me.

“You see now, don’t you?” said Santa kindly.

“I do,” I whispered. “I had lost it, the wonder, the magic—and I want it back.”

The room swam; I closed my eyes a moment, dizzy. When I opened them again, he was no longer in the screen. He was standing in my kitchen, brushing chimney soot from his red coat as casually as a man might brush snow from his boots.

“Well,” he chuckled, “that’s better. I thought I might never get free of that television contraption.” He tugged at his suit, peering down his spectacles. “A bit worn at the seams, don’t you think? Perhaps I ought to try something more practical. Grey, perhaps—or a nice shade of green?”

I gawked at him. “You can’t change your suit! You’re Father Christmas!”

He twinkled at me. “Quite right. Grey does sound rather burglarish, doesn’t it?” He laughed, and the laugh filled every corner of the room, until even the shadows seemed to smile.

Then his face grew solemn.

“Jeremiah, I have little time. Listen well. Life is short, but it is a gift, as precious as any wrapped beneath a tree. Do not waste it. Seize the moment—whether at Christmas or in the common days between. Live fully. Give freely. Believe, and by your belief, help others to remember the magic they too have misplaced. That, my friend, is the Spirit of Christmas.”

His words settled into me, like snow falling soft and sure.

“I understand,” I said, my heart lighter than it had been in years. “And I will. I promise.”

“Then my work here is done,” he replied. “I have a busy night ahead of me, you know.” With that, he gave me one last smile—and was gone.

Only the frosted windowpane and the silence of the kitchen bore witness to what had passed.

Moments later, I heard small feet upon the stairs. Eric and Victoria burst into the room, their eyes alight. “Who were you talking to, Daddy?”

“The Spirit of Christmas,” I told them, with a smile that felt truer than any I had worn in years.

They looked puzzled, but only for a heartbeat. Outside, the first flakes of snow began to fall.

“Snow!” cried Eric.

“Snow, snow, snow!” echoed Victoria, already dashing for the door.

“Not until you’re dressed properly,” Breda called after them, appearing in the doorway with her usual sensible frown.

I laughed, pulling on my boots. “Come, then! Last one out’s a rotten egg!”

And soon we were all outside, chasing flakes, catching them on our sleeves, marveling at their perfect, fleeting patterns. We built a small snowman, sang nonsense songs, and laughed until our breath rose like clouds into the wintry air.

That evening, after hot chocolate and honeyed pancakes, after the children were tucked in bed, Breda curled beside me on the sofa.

“You’re different today,” she murmured. “Almost like a child again. Whatever came over you?”

“More than you could ever imagine,” I said softly, kissing her hair.

And when at last the fire burned low and the house grew quiet, I whispered into the glow:

“Merry Christmas—and God bless us, every one.”

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✨ The End ✨

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