What point does Christmas have for a young adult who lives alone? That is a question you made yourself throughout the entirety of December until the expected day arrives.

Every children must be going to bed happily, all believing the false lie of Santa coming to their houses to leave presents under a poorly decorated Christmas tree.

You cannot help but sigh as you glance around your undecorated apartment. Work kept you extremely busy –and exhausted– to even bother with decorations. Why does it matter anyways? This will be another regular and boring day once again.

However despite experiencing current thoughts you cannot help but feel a little nostalgic upon remembering the sweet memories that Christmas created. After having an intense debate in your mind you decide that perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea to leave some milk and cookies on the table and keep the small tradition alive.

It is now the middle of the night. Your throat was painfully dry so you stood up from the cozy bed and walked towards the kitchen.

To your surprise the cookies and milk disappeared from the table– and there's now an indigo haired man placing presents in your couch.

"Well, this is awkward." He says after clearing up his throat. His name is Scaramouche– or so you read on the little tag he has placed on his chest. "You weren't supposed to see me."