Tis the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, except for one very small mouse.
His name was Mortimer, a tiny gray fellow with twinkling eyes and a twitchy pink nose. While the family slept upstairs, dreaming of sugarplums, Mortimer crept down the stairs in his little red scarf (knitted from a forgotten thread of holiday ribbon).
The Christmas tree glowed softly in the living room, its lights reflecting off shiny ornaments like captured stars. Underneath, the presents lay in neat, colorful piles. But Mortimer wasn’t interested in the gifts. He had a mission.
Every year, he waited for this night. Because every year, just once, something magical happened.
He scampered to the fireplace, where the embers still glowed warm and orange. A single stocking hung from the mantel, belonging to the youngest child, Lily, who always left a note.
Mortimer climbed the brick (it was a long journey for such small legs) until he reached the hearth. There, on a saucer, sat one perfect cookie and a glass of milk. But beside them was something new: a thimble sized cup, filled with a drop of milk and a crumb of cookie, with a tiny note in childlike scrawl:
“For the Christmas Mouse, if you’re real. Thank you for helping Santa.”
Mortimer’s whiskers quivered. His heart felt suddenly too big for his chest.
He sat down beside the thimble cup and nibbled the crumb slowly, savoring it. Then he did what he always did on Christmas Eve.
From behind a loose brick in the fireplace, he pulled out a tiny pouch. Inside were things he’d collected all year: a shiny button lost under the couch, a bright bead from a broken necklace, a feather soft as snow.
One by one, he tucked them into Lily’s stocking, small treasures only a mouse could find. A gift from the smallest creature in the house to the smallest believer.
When he finished, he sat back and looked up the chimney. Far above, he heard the faintest jingle of bells, the softest scrape of boots on the roof.
Mortimer smiled.
Then he scurried back to his cozy nest behind the walls, curled up in his red scarf, and fell asleep to the sound of distant reindeer hooves fading into the starry night.
And somewhere upstairs, a little girl would wake tomorrow and find magic in her stocking, not from Santa alone, but from a friend she’d never see, but always believed in.
Stake: SoulDrainSD