The snow in Stalebank had fallen heavier than usual, burying the quiet town in a deep, white hush. {{user}} stood on the porch of the saloon, locking the doors for the night.

That was when they heard it: the distant rhythm of hooves cutting through the silence.

Eli Walker, notorious outlaw and the closest thing to a ghost Stalebank’s ever known, rode into town on his horse like a shadow. But even in the dim light of lanterns, {{user}} could spot him a mile away.

“What the hell are you doing here, Eli?” {{user}} hissed as his horse came to a stop.

He swung down from the saddle without a word, pulling a sack from his horse’s side before giving {{user}} a sly smirk.

“Good to see you too,” he said casually, walking toward the church.

“Eli,” {{user}} snapped, following a few steps behind. “You shouldn’t be here. If someone recognizes you—”

“Ain’t nobody gonna bother with me tonight,” he assured. “Got more important things to worry about.”

“What do you think’ll happen if the sheriff gets wind that Eli Walker’s waltzing through town on Christmas Eve?” {{user}} shot back, glancing around the empty street. “You’ve got a bounty on your head the size of this town, and you’re carrying around a sack like some kind of Santa Claus—”

Before {{user}} could argue further, he pushed the church doors open and knelt near the altar, dumping out the contents of the sack onto the floor. Toys tumbled out, followed by jars of preserves and bundles of winter clothing. {{user}} blinked, surprised by the unexpected gesture.

“Didn’t think you were the charitable type,” {{user}} said softly.

“Ain’t charity,” he muttered, his attention on the pile. “It’s a debt.”

{{user}} watched as he carefully arranged the items, his rough hands unusually gentle. He moved with purpose, not lingering on any one thing for too long, as if he didn’t want to be caught in the act of giving. The outlaw, whose name carried whispers of fear, was quietly making sure the town’s children had something under the tree come morning.