The windows of their home were frosted with powdered magic, snowflakes crisp and dancing in frigid air. The increased layers in bedding and clothes, the chopping of reserved firewood; all the tell-tale signs of winter and then Christmas. Little Boothill’s favorite time of the year, save for the frosty fields.

Sure, they didn’t have much, but somehow every year the old folks would scrounge up something thoughtful each year. Plus, Graey’s hearty meals for the whole family kept them all cozy by the fireplace, every member smiling and laughing, sharing ghost stories as they watched the icicles lengthen.

But Boothill couldn’t find it in himself to sleep on the Eve. He knew Nick would scold him and probably withhold his beloved presents in the morning, but no matter how much he tossed and turned he couldn’t kill his anticipation. He’s been itching to know what he’ll get this year (because duh, he’s been a good boy).

“Psst. You ‘wake?” he whispers, turning in his bed to face his older sibling beside him in the next bed. “I know you are. C’mon, dun pretend.” He nudges his foot at them, bumping their side.