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In the closed neighborhood, Christmas was always silent. The houses were decorated with neat lights, the gardens impeccable and the internal streets almost empty after ten. Each family celebrated indoors, without too much noise, as if the whole neighborhood agreed not to disturb. That Christmas Eve, I went for a walk after midnight. The air was fresh and you could only hear the distant hum of some generator and the crunch of the lights hanging on the facades. When I passed by the guardhouse, I saw the guard sitting, looking at his cell phone. I had a cold coffee in my hand. "Merry Christmas," I told him. He looked up, surprised, and smiled. "Thank you, anyway." We continue each one with his own. But after a few steps, I came back. "Are you spending the night here?" He nodded. —Full shift. My family has dinner tomorrow. I didn't really know what to say. I returned home, grabbed a portion of vitel toné that was left over and a can of soda, and returned to the gatehouse. When I gave it to him, he hesitated for a second. "It wasn't necessary. "That's what Christmas is for," I replied. We ate in silence, looking at the lights reflected on the window of the entrance. There were no speeches or big gestures. Just two people sharing a simple moment. When I returned home, I understood something: in such a closed neighborhood, that small gesture had opened more than any gate. stake id: luigipro1

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