The Stranger in Silent Night

Brittle branches hung limp like remnants of forgotten joy as the small donated white office tree leaned in its corner. Its brown needles flaked off with every movement, leaving sharp, dry debris scattered across the floor. A cobble of twisted broken candy canes, frayed Christmas wrapper bows, and a meager string of popcorn and dark berries hung from the sagging branches, desperately trying to hide the tree’s sorry reality, but failing miserably.

Connie moved slowly around the kitchen, perfecting the turkey stew. She’d tried to make the evening feel festive, but the air felt broken. A month ago, thieves had ransacked their home, stealing basics, valuables and destroying heirlooms and everything else, leaving behind wreckage soaked in their personal filth. The repairs drained their savings—windows, doors, walls, and expensive dump hauls. The last of their borrowed money went to replace their beds and blankets, just in time for rising winter bills. There was nothing left for Christmas.

The boys were both angry and sad. Jeff did his best to hide his frustration, but it showed in the way he scribbled endlessly in his sketchpad. Russell, his younger brother, carried his toys with him wherever he went, his face now marked by confusion and fear. Connie, on the other hand, wore a smile that never quite reached her eyes, forcing fake chuckles as she tried not to disappoint anyone.

The doorbell rang, breaking her focus as she prepared for Christmas Eve.

"Hey, Connie! The storm’s really picking up out there," said Sarah, a neighbor from the next block. She and her kids were bundled up in heavy winter coats, carrying trays of homemade sides. "We came early to beat the worst of it."

"Thanks for coming," Connie replied, managing a weak grin. "I hope you brought your appetites. Stew's... all I've got."

"Not for long." They stepped inside, shaking the snow off their boots, and began setting up the dining room. More guests arrived, and with each, the entryway filled with snow while the table filled with an extravagant spread—far beyond anything Connie could have prepared on her own. Many had brought unfamiliar guests, and introductions were exchanged quickly, if at all, in the doorway.

As Connie stepped back into the kitchen, her eyes caught a figure standing near the tree. He was tall, unremarkable, yet unsettling, his long coat worn and face obscured by shadows. This stranger didn’t belong.

"Can I help you?" she asked, trying to be polite.

"Just enjoying the party," he replied, his voice flat and distant.

"Are you with someone?" she asked, but before he could respond, another guest called her back to the kitchen. The feeling lingered.

The evening passed in a blur. The snowstorm outside had escalated, and by the time everyone finished eating, it was clear that no one would be able to make it home if they stayed longer. A group gathered in the driveway, trying to push Sarah’s car out of the snowbank the passing plow had stuck in as others cleaned and packed up the meals.

Connie noticed a small piece of paper tucked beneath a napkin on the side table. She bent down, breath catching, as she read the simple message:

"Thank you for the warmth. You didn’t have to, but you did. You gave me what I needed."

Signed, "The Uninvited."

Her thoughts were interrupted by Russell tugging on her sleeve. "Mom, you okay?"

She forced a smile, slipping the note into her pocket. "Yeah, sweetheart, I’m okay."

A frustrated yelp outside suddenly caught Connie's attention. She arrived on her front step in time to see Sarah’s car, freshly freed from the snow, sputter and die. With no choice but to leave it behind, Sarah called out, “Merry Christmas!” and led her kids into the storm. Guilt twisted in Connie’s chest—Sarah had come to help, and now this. She watched them disappear into the blizzard, the cold already stinging her skin.

Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw him—the man from earlier—watching.

"Hey!" she called out, quickly walking toward him, her worry increasing for Sarah’s safety. "What are you doing here?"

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he simply looked at her with those unreadable eyes, his face obscured by the hood of his coat.

"I’m just... passing through," he said finally, his tone unbothered.

Connie frowned. "Where did you come from? You know you weren't invited."

The stranger shrugged, not offering more than that.

Her fingers raced to her phone, her pulse quickening. "Did you have something to do with the break-in? Was that you?"

Her voice shook with a mix of anger and fear.

He didn’t flinch. Instead, his gaze softened, almost... pitying. "I didn’t take anything from you," he said, his voice low, almost gentle.

Connie swallowed. "Who are you? Why are you still here?"

He hesitated. Then, slowly, he said, "I was hoping you might have a little something to spare."

She stiffened. "What? Money?"

"Yes," he replied simply. "I know you don’t have much, but I could use it."

Her hand went to her pocket, feeling the only crumpled $5 bill she had left. "This is all I’ve got," she said, her voice tight. "It’s not much, but... take it."

The stranger’s eyes flickered with something that almost resembled gratitude. He took the bill from her hand without a word, but then he looked up, his eyes suddenly intense.

"I know a lot about you, Connie."

"What do you mean?"

He smiled slightly, a faint, cryptic curve of his lips. "I know about your violent past. About the bike you saved for as a child, sold the next day for their habit. I know you try hard to please people who don’t deserve it. I know your hiding spots in the streets when you were a teen. I know you were fired and blackballed by someone you thought was your friend, and I know you couldn’t save your cat when he was sick."

Connie felt a chill crawl up her spine. "How... how do you know that?"

The stranger's gaze softened. "I know a lot of things."

She took a step back, fear creeping into her chest. "Why are you telling me this?"

He looked down at the bill in his hand. "And I know this is the last cent you have. And you gave it to me."

Connie’s breath hitched. "I... I have no choice. It’s freezing out here. You need it."

He nodded, as though understanding something unspoken. "You’re not a failure, Connie. You’ve restored my faith in humanity tonight. Your gifts haven’t gone unnoticed."

She blinked, still processing his words, her throat tight. "What gifts? They stole everything! Everything that mattered... is gone."

The stranger’s expression didn’t change. "No, they didn’t steal your hope or the power watching over you."

Her stomach dropped, panic setting in. She shook her head. "What do you mean? Who’s watching me?"

He only said, "No one you know."

Connie’s heart pounded, and she turned quickly, rushing back to her driveway. She didn’t know why, but she felt the need to get away from him as fast as possible.

As she started up her front steps, she glanced back into the street. The stranger was still standing there, staring after her, his figure slowly disappearing into the blizzard.

Christmas morning arrived with a quiet, heavy sense of disappointment. The house was still cold and the tree sagged in its corner. The kids opened their donated gifts—Russell getting a small plastic train set and Jeff a book on origami—and it was clear with her donated “gift”, a ripped men’s coat, they didn’t have much to celebrate. No one even responded to her Merry Christmas messages.

"So this is Christmas?" Jeff asked, and tossed his book on the sofa. His tone was resigned, almost bitter.

"Guess so," Russell muttered, zooming his toy train around the tree, trying to find joy in the small things.

Connie sighed, staring at the snow piling up outside. "I’ll make breakfast," she said, heading to the kitchen. But as she stirred eggs in the pan, the weight of everything hit her, and she crouched down in the corner starring at the place where their family cat once ate, tears welling up in her eyes. She couldn’t afford to save him. "I am a complete failure," she hated her life.

The falling snow covered their windows with a thick blanket of white. As she went to open the door, she realized the moulded wall of heavy snow had piled up to nearly four feet.

"Oh, my God," she muttered. "Looks like we’re shovelling the whole afternoon."

Jeff, glancing at the drift, shrugged. "Mom, no one’s coming today. It can wait."

"We’ll help later," Russell added quietly.

Christmas day dragged on in a blizzard, its cold, silent stillness weighing on Connie’s city block. It was one of the coldest Christmases she could remember—she shovelled snow in short bursts, retreating inside to warm up, feeling defeated. Russell and Jeff were doing their best, but Connie could see their frustration: the stolen game systems, the broken toys, and the cold, empty house made it hard to find hope.

After dinner, while waiting for the kettle to whistle, Connie stared out at the storm and saw him again—the stranger. He was walking through the snowdrifts, heading straight toward their house. Her stomach tightened. Not again.

She couldn’t believe he’d return after she gave him her last dollar. But there he was, standing on the steps, knocking gently. Connie hesitated, then opened the door with the chain intact. He looked as ominous as before.

"Got anything to spare?" His voice was calm, unaffected.

"I told you yesterday—we have nothing," she replied, gripping the doorframe.

The man didn’t flinch. "What if I shovelled your pathways for you?" he offered. His eyes seemed to search hers, as if he could see right through her.

Connie clenched her jaw. "We don’t have money. I don’t know what you want from us."

"I’ll take hot cider, if you’ve got it." His tone was oddly polite, as though he didn’t mind the no.

The kettle's whistle suddenly blared, jolting Connie into action. She quickly made cider, then returned to the door. He stood there, seemingly unbothered by the freezing temperatures. His eyes flicked toward the boys, who had silently approached.

"They’re not scared of the cold, are they?" The stranger asked, his smile wild and unsettling. "Boys, you should be out here helping your mother shovel the snow."

Russell and Jeff exchanged uncomfortable glances, then, as though instructed by some invisible force, they both turned and disappeared back inside the kitchen. Connie could see it in their faces—they were afraid of him too.

She handed him the cider through the small gap, "You should head downtown to the shelters," she said, trying to be as kind as possible. "There are places for people in this kind of weather."

"Thank you," he said simply, his expression unreadable. "I appreciate it."

Before she could say another word, the stranger turned and walked away, disappearing over the snowdrifts as quickly as he had arrived.

Connie watched him go, feeling a strange unease. Who is he? Why does he keep showing up?

The next afternoon, Connie shovelled more snow, stopping at her neighbor’s sidewalk. The snow wall was now taller than her, but she refused to give up. Her muscles ached, and her frozen hands were numb, but she kept pushing forward.

As she shovelled, a deep discomfort crept over her. The street was eerily still—no plows, no neighbors, no sign of life. It felt as if she were the last person on earth, trapped in an icy apocalypse. She kicked at the snowbank, forming a ladder, and climbed to the top of the drifts to survey the block.

From her perch, the truth became clear. No one else had cleared the snow. The entire street was buried, swallowed by the storm’s unyielding grip. Connie’s heart sank.

The day faded into night, the bitter cold making the world feel even more oppressive. The streetlights were still off, and the outside world seemed barely visible. Connie, drained from the past few days, felt the weight of exhaustion, both emotional and physical.

"Another boring evening," Jeff muttered as he slouched on the couch. "No TV, no games... This radio’s all static."

"They even peed on all my Legos," Russell added with a cry. He opened the new tub lid half-expecting it to be full again.

"Well, we can try cards," Connie offered. "You may like it."

"No thanks," Jeff responded quickly, retreating to his sketchbook, clearly uninterested.

"How about a board game?" Connie suggested.

"That’s stupid," Russell said, flipping through his brother’s discarded origami book. "They stomped on the boxes. And we’re missing pieces."

"How about I read to you? I can make some hot chocolate and read a few chapters."

"That’s a bedtime thing, Mom," Russell whined.

"Well, that’s all we’ve got." Connie sighed, feeling defeated. "I’ll make some more hot chocolate, and you’ll just have to make do."

Her body ached from shovelling as she trudged to the kitchen, the kettle feeling heavier today. If only she had more money—then maybe she could seek justice for the break-in, or at least get the authorities to apply more effort. So this is Christmas for people like us, she thought bitterly.

Once the hot chocolate was ready, she placed it beside the newly-constructed blanket fort in the living room. Their fingers eagerly reached out to pull it into the cozy refuge they had built earlier, directing the heat from a small space heater into their little sanctuary. Connie sat nearby, rubbing her cool forearms as she gazed out the window, wondering when the temperature would finally improve. In the swirling snow, she saw the shadow again—the stranger, moving across the thick snow toward her house.

Her breath caught in her throat.

"Not again," she whispered to herself, pulling her blanket off her as she tried to ignore the chill creeping up her spine. She headed to the kitchen to pour more hot chocolate in a to-go cup.

The next morning, as Connie and the boys huddled in their blanket fort, the silent house was interrupted by the faint crackle of the clock radio, its sound muffled.

"This is an emergency broadcast. The polar vortex is wreaking havoc across the city. Record-breaking temperatures have caused widespread power outages, forcing thousands from their homes. Shelters are overwhelmed as residents seek refuge."

Connie hurriedly parted the blanket tent to hear more clearly, her heart racing as the full severity of the storm sank in.

The radio flickered in and out before the announcer spoke. "So, you heard it, folks. The city’s warning against heading home too soon. Three-quarters of the city is still without power and water. Crews are working to clear the streets, but if you're in a shelter or at risk, stay put for now."

“We only have power?” Russell asked, trembling as he curled between her and Jeff.

Jeff’s voice was full of awe. “Radio says that. Only a quarter of the city has it.”

Connie murmured in shock, “I didn't know. Our house is on the same grid as the city hospital—maybe that’s why we still have power and water? But if so, why are our neighbors gone?”

She felt out of the loop. The news hit her hard as she watched her boys crawl back into the blanket fort with the radio. Her mind struggled to process everything—it all felt too surreal, like she were caught in a strange, suspended reality.

And just then, as though in perfect sync with the reporter's call for patience, she heard a sound—a gentle knock at the door.

Connie’s heart stopped.

She ran to open the door, heart heavy, wondering if it was him again.

And there, standing on her top step, was the stranger.

He didn’t speak immediately but looked at her, his eyes steady as ever. Then he nodded, as though sensing the change in the air.

"You’re safe," he said softly. "Your family is warm. You’ve made it through the worst of it."

Connie stood in the doorway, bewildered. The dark weight of the storm still hung over the west sky, but something in that moment, in his quiet words, gave her a sense of peace and protection she hadn't felt in months.

Before she could respond, the stranger turned and began to walk away, his figure soon eclipsed by his climb up the snow wall.

Connie gripped the door, as she watched him disappear from view. A quiet realization washed over her—this was the last time she'd see him. A gift had come with the stranger, and though he never returned, the sense of being watched over by a higher power lingered. The miracle wasn’t what she had hoped for—a joyful Christmas filled with laughter, gifts, new games, and holiday music in a home decorated in elegant glamour—but what she truly needed: a genuine sense of higher protection and unshakable gratitude. For the first time in ages, warmth filled her.

The radio crackled, then popped, and clear sound filled the air. The boys cheered, and Connie smiled. The storm eased, though the wind still howled, pushing snow into swirling drifts. The sky to the east lightened, and the clouds began to thin. Despite the storm’s lingering presence, something about the moment felt different, as if the weight of the past year had lifted. Humming a Christmas tune, she headed to the kitchen to prepare a hearty breakfast.

As she cooked and the radio played, a small white gifted tree stood glowing in the corner, bathed in patches of golden beams streaming through the front windows. Its branches shimmered in the warmth, and its needles swayed gently. The sunlight touched the decorations—sparkling candy canes, handmade metallic bows, and a garland of popcorn and cranberries—casting delicate rainbows across the floor, filling the room with a soft, colorful glow.

—end.