’Tis the night before Christmas, and the fire is crackling softly in the fireplace. The room is warm, and the only light comes from the tree in the corner, glowing with small, steady lights. Outside, snow falls slowly, covering the ground and making everything quiet.
Stockings hang by the mantel, slightly crooked, filled just enough to show they’re waiting for morning. The house smells like pine, cinnamon, and something sweet left cooling in the kitchen. A clock ticks on the wall, slow and calm, as if time itself has decided to rest.
You pull the blanket up around your shoulders and listen. The wind brushes past the windows, and the floor creaks now and then, the normal sounds of a house settling for the night. It feels peaceful—safe in a way only this night can feel.
Somewhere far off, maybe only in your imagination, a bell rings once and then is gone. You smile but don’t question it. Christmas has a way of letting you believe, just for a moment.
The fire burns low, the room grows still, and with a quiet yawn, the night wraps itself around the house, waiting patiently for morning
STAKE USERNAME : ANTINITY
