A Silent Gift
In the city of Lumen, Christmas was more than just a holiday—it was a season of enchantment that wrapped itself around every corner of the city. The narrow streets, once cobbled and gray, were now cloaked in thick layers of snow, sparkling like diamonds under the soft glow of the street lamps. Icicles hung like crystal chandeliers from the rooftops of homes, their windows twinkling with warm, golden lights that flickered against the deep blue of the winter sky.
Wreaths adorned every door, and garlands of holly and mistletoe stretched across shop windows, which were decorated with ornaments, festive displays, and flickering candlelight. The air was filled with the rich scent of pine, cinnamon, and fresh-baked gingerbread, as carolers, wrapped in thick scarves and hats, sang joyful hymns in the town square.
Children, bundled in their coats and mittens, built snowmen and tossed snowballs with shrieks of delight, while families huddled together, warming their hands over cups of mulled cider from market stalls. In Lumen, the cold didn’t dim the Christmas spirit—it made it brighter, cozier, and more cherished.
At the heart of all this festivity was the tradition known as *The Weight of Winter*, a beloved ritual that marked the true spirit of the season. Every Christmas Eve, without fail, the residents of Lumen would receive a sealed letter. Inside was a simple address, somewhere in the city, and it became each person’s mission to send a gift—anonymously—to the recipient.
The gifts could be anything: handmade, store-bought, grand or humble. The magic wasn’t in what was given, but in the act of giving itself, a symbol of warmth shared in the depths of winter. Snowflakes drifted lazily from the sky, as the city buzzed with excitement and anticipation. Shops overflowed with potential presents—handcrafted toys, embroidered scarves, ornate trinkets—each more beautiful than the last, inviting passersby to stop and ponder what might bring joy to the unknown recipient on the other side of the city. Lumen came alive with the thrill of giving, and in the coldest, darkest season, Christmas seemed to cast its brightest glow.
Aurelia had never been one to chase after wealth or status. In her mid-thirties, she lived a modest life, working long hours as a night-shift nurse at the city’s aging hospital. The patients she cared for were often elderly, forgotten by families too busy to visit, or those who had no one left at all. She spent her nights tending to their frail bodies, their hands cold and thin like the winter outside, but she never let her heart freeze over.
For her, The Weight of Winter had always held a special meaning. As a child, her mother would wrap their Christmas gift with great care, saying, “It’s not about the gift, Aurelia. It’s about giving them a piece of yourself.” Her mother had passed away many years ago, but those words had stayed with Aurelia, a constant reminder that kindness was not something to be measured in coins. And yet, this year, as Christmas approached, she felt a growing sense of unease.
The city seemed consumed by fear—fear of giving too little, of being seen as unworthy, of receiving some karmic retribution for a gift deemed inadequate. Even Aurelia’s colleagues at the hospital spoke in hushed tones about the lengths they were going to find the “right” gift. Some were going into debt just to secure something impressive, as if life itself had become a ledger where kindness could be bought.
The tradition had once been simple—a way to spread warmth in the biting cold, to remind the citizens that they were connected, even when the snow piled high. Decades ago, the gifts were small, handmade, or thoughtful gestures—knitted scarves, homemade jams, carved trinkets. The joy was not in the object itself but in the act of giving, in the warmth that the giver could imagine passing from their hands to another’s.
But now, the city whispered about the karmic balance, a superstition that the quality of the gift you gave determined what you would receive in return. The more extravagant the gift, the better your reward, or so it was believed. And slowly, the weight of expectation began to crush the joy out of the tradition. No longer was it enough to send a simple token of kindness—now, the citizens of Lumen obsessed over the value of their gifts, terrified that if they gave too little, they would be punished with a thoughtless or meager gift in return. The warmth of Christmas had turned cold, replaced by anxiety, suspicion, and greed.
Despite the warmth and excitement swirling through the streets of Lumen, Aurelia felt a growing weight settle on her shoulders. This year, more than ever, she had noticed the change in how people spoke about The Weight of Winter. It was no longer just a tradition—it had become a calculation, a source of anxiety.
The quiet conversations she overheard while walking past bustling shop windows weren’t about the joy of giving but about the expectation of receiving. “You can’t send something too cheap,” someone whispered as they examined a shimmering necklace in one of the more expensive stores. “What if they send something extravagant in return? You’ll look bad.” Another voice, from across the street, said, “I’ve heard that whatever you send comes back to you. You get what you give, right? So it’s better to spend more, just in case.” Aurelia felt her chest tighten as these voices echoed in her mind.
Walking through the snow-covered square, she watched as friends compared their purchases, each trying to outdo the other, their laughter tinged with nervousness. The city’s festive lights blinked around her, but she couldn’t shake the sense that something was off. Aurelia’s own sealed letter was tucked deep in her coat pocket, its contents a mystery.
She had yet to open it, almost afraid to see what address it held. The street vendors selling roasted chestnuts and mulled wine called out to her, their booths glowing warmly in the cold, but Aurelia didn’t feel like stopping. She felt out of place, unsure of what to give or how much to spend, and worried about what receiving a gift would mean in this new, almost transactional version of the tradition.
That night, as Aurelia returned to her small, snow-dusted apartment, the festive mood of the city seemed to dissipate behind her. The cheer in the streets felt distant now, a muffled hum beyond her frosted windows. She tossed her coat on the old wooden chair by the door and reached into her pocket, pulling out the letter that had been weighing on her all day. She sat by the dim glow of her modest Christmas tree, its lights flickering softly like stars through the pine needles, casting gentle shadows on the room.
With a sigh, she tore the envelope open. Inside was the familiar handwritten script—an address she didn’t recognize. Aurelia felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. The address belonged to a part of the city that had long since fallen into neglect, where old brick buildings stood crumbling beneath layers of snow and where the festive spirit didn’t seem to reach. It was a corner of Lumen she had heard people talk about in hushed tones, a place where hope flickered like a candle about to go out. She closed her eyes, feeling torn. What could she give to someone who lived there? Would anything she chose be enough?
Her mind raced back to the conversations she had overheard earlier that day. The pressure to buy something grand loomed over her. But then, another memory surfaced—the voice of her mother, soft and kind, reminding her of the real meaning behind *The Weight of Winter*. Aurelia had heard the words every year growing up: “It’s not about the value, my dear. It’s about the thought. It’s about the heart behind the gift.” But in the frenzy of the city’s new mindset, that lesson felt almost too simple, too idealistic for the world she now lived in.
The Christmas market in Lumen was a marvel, a labyrinth of narrow, cobbled streets lined with festively adorned stalls. It was set up just outside the city’s grand clock tower, which stood tall, its spire piercing through the heavy grey clouds that hung low over the valley. Each shopfront and kiosk was draped in pine boughs and twinkling fairy lights, giving the entire square a glow that contrasted beautifully against the deep snowbanks gathering on the edges of the streets. The snow fell in slow, lazy flurries, dusting the ground like powdered sugar. People shuffled along, wrapped in thick scarves and woolen coats, their breath fogging the air as they huddled closer to the warmth radiating from the glowing stalls.
The first shop Aurelia passed was a small, cozy bookstore that had been in Lumen for generations. Its weathered sign, painted with gold script that read *“The Owl’s Quill,”* swung gently in the breeze. Inside, a wood-burning stove flickered, casting a soft, amber glow through the frosted windowpanes.
Shelves crammed with leather-bound tomes and crisp new volumes lined the walls, and in the center, a round table was stacked high with Christmas-themed novels, stories of magic and hope, their covers bursting with red, gold, and silver. The smell of old paper and cedar drifted out as the door swung open, and a young couple exited, arms linked, each holding a book wrapped in delicate parchment. They exchanged smiles, clearly feeling the joy of finding the perfect gift for someone special.
Next to it was a confectionery shop, *Sweet Snowflakes*, famous for its peppermint bark and chocolate-dipped orange slices. The shop’s front display was a masterful arrangement of sugar-dusted pastries and candy canes twisted into intricate shapes. The scent was irresistible—a heady mix of caramel, cinnamon, and melted chocolate that wafted through the streets, luring passersby inside.
Children with wide, eager eyes pressed their faces against the glass, pointing at towers of gingerbread cookies shaped like reindeer and stars, their sugar crystals sparkling like real snow. Inside, the shop was alive with activity. Behind the counter, the baker—a stout woman with flour-dusted hands and a cheerful red bonnet—was laughing as she handed over warm pastries wrapped in festive paper to customers who hurried off to join the bustling crowd.
Further along, Aurelia noticed a small toy shop called *Winter’s Charm*, a place that seemed straight out of a storybook. Its wooden façade was painted a deep evergreen, and above the door hung an oversized wreath made of fresh pine and berries, with a red bow at its center. Inside, the shelves were stocked with hand-carved wooden toys: trains, spinning tops, and delicate dolls dressed in holiday finery.
A father and daughter stood at the counter, the girl clutching a wooden horse, her eyes shining with excitement as the shopkeeper carefully wrapped it. The father handed over a few worn bills, smiling warmly at his daughter. She squealed with delight, hopping up and down in anticipation of placing the horse beneath their Christmas tree.
The market was alive with the sounds of joy and laughter. Near the center, a small brass band played Christmas carols, their music mingling with the chatter of families and friends who gathered at food stalls selling hot cider and mulled wine. People stopped to admire ornaments shaped like angels and snowflakes, carefully crafted by local artisans. Here and there, children darted between the adults, chasing each other through the snowy streets, their laughter bubbling up as they kicked up powdery flurries. The city buzzed with a kind of magic that only the holidays could bring.
Despite the festive scene around her, Aurelia couldn’t shake the growing anxiety in her chest. She had walked through these streets every Christmas for years, but this time, everything felt different. The pressure to give the “right” gift loomed larger with every shop window she passed. What could she possibly offer that would measure up in a world where even joy seemed to have a price tag?
The city’s Christmas market was in full swing, with snow gently falling and covering the streets in a soft blanket. Warm lights twinkled from every shop, casting a glow on the bustling crowd. Children’s laughter mixed with the hum of holiday music as people bustled between the stalls, wrapped in scarves and coats.
Along the market, Aurelia weaved through the crowd, trying to shake the persistent worry gnawing at her mind. The festive air, usually comforting, seemed distant tonight, but she pressed on. Somewhere in this maze of twinkling lights and cheerful vendors, she hoped to find the gift—one that carried the weight of what she couldn’t quite express with words.
As she approached the edge of the market, her steps slowed near a quieter corner where the stalls were fewer, and the crowd thinned. The stall here was understated compared to the others, tucked next to a large oak tree that had stood in the town square for as long as anyone could remember. The man running the stall sat on a worn wooden bench, bundled up in a long coat and knit cap. His small wooden table, weathered with time, was set up with careful precision. It wasn’t adorned with colorful decorations or sparkling lights, unlike the other market stands, but the simplicity of it caught Aurelia’s eye.
His table held rows of small figurines, each one hand-carved from wood. The table itself was old, with scuff marks and faded edges, hinting at years of use. Its surface was dusted with fine wood shavings that glistened under the soft market lights. On one side, an old brass lantern flickered softly, its glass pane fogged from the warmth of the flame inside. Behind the table, there was a small crate filled with tools—chisels and mallets—each one carefully placed, suggesting a craftsman’s pride.
Aurelia was drawn to the figures on display. Unlike the glossy, mass-produced decorations lining the rest of the market, these had an unmistakable handcrafted charm. She leaned closer, examining them in detail. Each figurine was unique: a reindeer with gentle curves, a shepherd cradling a lamb, and a little angel with wings outstretched as though ready to take flight. The wood was smooth, and the carvings were delicate, every detail carefully etched by hand. There was no excess, no flashy embellishments—just pure, honest craftsmanship.
One figure stood out to her immediately. It was an angel, carved from a single piece of pale wood, with simple yet graceful wings that arched slightly upward. Its face was serene, and though small, it had a certain quiet strength. Unlike the surrounding stalls filled with vibrant colors and noisy displays, this figurine seemed to speak in whispers, offering a sense of calm in the busy market. It wasn’t flashy or grand, but there was something timeless about it—something that made her pause.
As she reached out to touch the angel, the older man, who had been quietly watching her from his stool, smiled gently. He didn’t say anything at first, just nodded as if he understood exactly why she was there, as though he had seen that look in other customers many times before. His hands, calloused from years of carving, rested on the table’s edge as he leaned forward slightly, waiting for her to speak.
This moment felt different from the rest of her frantic search. It wasn’t about finding the most dazzling or expensive gift; it was about the connection between giver and receiver, something this little angel seemed to embody.
Aurelia hesitated for a moment, her fingers hovering over the small angel. There was a quiet stillness around the stall, a kind of pause in the holiday bustle. As she finally picked up the delicate figurine, it was lighter than she expected, yet it seemed to carry a weight of meaning beyond its modest size.
“You have a good eye,” the older man said, his voice soft but steady. “That angel was one of the first pieces I carved this season. There’s something special about it.”
Aurelia looked up, surprised at how the man’s words resonated with her. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured, turning the figurine in her hands. The way its wings curved upward reminded her of the kind of peace she had been yearning for amid the chaos in her own mind. “It feels… like it’s meant to be here.”
The man nodded as if he understood, and he motioned toward the other side of his table where a few more carvings rested. Unlike the polished figurines of angels and reindeer, these were unfinished. Their edges were still rough, their forms just beginning to take shape from blocks of wood. “This one,” he said, gesturing to the angel in her hand, “came together faster than the others. Some pieces have a way of revealing themselves, almost like they know exactly what they’re meant to be.”
She smiled at the thought, finding comfort in the idea of things revealing themselves in their own time. For weeks, she’d been searching for the right gift, but now, it wasn’t about the gift anymore. It was about understanding why she needed to give it. This angel, simple yet profound, somehow represented that clarity.
“How much for this one?” she asked, her voice quiet but certain.
The man leaned back on his stool, studying her for a moment. “For you, it’s not about the price,” he said kindly. “It’s about giving it to the right person. That’s the important part.”
Aurelia blinked, taken aback by his words. It was as if he had sensed the turmoil in her, the struggle she hadn’t been able to put into words. She didn’t know whether to thank him or insist on paying, but somehow, she knew that wasn’t what mattered. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, wrapped coin, placing it gently on his table.
The old man gave a soft nod and smiled again. “Merry Christmas, miss,” he said. His voice held a warmth that rivaled the festive glow of the market lights.
As she turned to leave, the snow was falling thicker now, settling in her hair and dusting the streets in a fresh layer of white. The sounds of the market buzzed around her once more, but she felt lighter somehow, as though a little piece of the peace she had found at the stall was now with her. With the angel carefully tucked into her coat, Aurelia made her way toward the edge of the square, where the lights twinkled against the snowy backdrop.
She had finally found what she didn’t realize she’d been searching for: a quiet, steady reminder that even in the noise and rush of the world, peace could be found in the smallest, most unexpected places.
Aurelia walked slowly through the now snow-covered streets, the sound of her boots muffled by the fresh powder. The market’s lively hum had faded as she moved deeper into the quieter parts of the city, where the buildings stood taller and closer together, their facades aged by time and weather. These streets, tucked away from the bustling holiday excitement, had an eerie calm about them, with fewer lights and an unmistakable sense of neglect. Still, there was something serene in the silence, something that mirrored the calm she felt after leaving the woodcarver’s stall.
The address she held in her hand led her to an area she had rarely visited, a forgotten corner of Lumen where time seemed to stand still. Faded decorations hung from old lampposts, and the windows of the nearby buildings were dark, giving no hint of the holiday warmth she had seen in the city center. She paused, glancing at the street signs, making sure she was headed in the right direction.
Finally, she arrived at the house. It was small, tucked between two larger, derelict buildings, with a slanted roof and chipped paint on the door. The sight of it made her heart ache a little. This place, so removed from the festivities, seemed untouched by the joy and togetherness that Christmas usually brought. The single window facing the street was frosted over, and no light shone from inside.
Aurelia’s hand trembled slightly as she reached for the door and knocked gently, unsure of what to expect. For a moment, there was only silence. She was about to knock again when the door creaked open, revealing a boy no older than six, standing barefoot in the doorway, wrapped in an oversized, worn-out blanket.
His face lit up when he saw her, his eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and hope. “Is it for me?” he asked softly, his gaze falling to the small, wrapped gift she held close to her chest.
Aurelia knelt down, her voice catching in her throat. “Yes,” she said, smiling through the lump in her throat. “It’s for you.”
The boy took the gift from her hands, carefully unwrapping it with an eagerness that made Aurelia’s heart swell. When he finally uncovered the wooden angel, his eyes sparkled with joy. He clutched it close, as though it were the most precious thing he had ever received. “It’s so pretty,” he whispered.
Just then, a man appeared in the doorway behind the boy—his father, Aurelia assumed. He was tall but gaunt, with deep lines etched into his face, the kind that came from a life of hardship. His clothes were threadbare, and the weariness in his eyes told her everything she needed to know about the struggles this little family had faced.
For a moment, there was an awkward silence. The father seemed unsure of what to say, his gaze shifting between Aurelia and his son. But then, he smiled—a small, grateful smile that spoke volumes more than words ever could.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice quiet but sincere. “You didn’t have to…”
Aurelia shook her head, her own emotions welling up inside her. “It’s Christmas,” she said simply. “No one should be without something special.”
The man nodded, his eyes glistening in the dim light from the street. He gestured for Aurelia to come in, and though the house was sparse, it was filled with warmth—the kind that didn’t come from decorations or gifts, but from the love of a family who had learned to make do with what little they had. She stepped inside, feeling the warmth of their small hearth. The boy showed his father the angel with such excitement that it brought a genuine smile to his father’s face, and for the first time in a long while, Aurelia felt a true sense of peace.
The father offered her a cup of tea, which she accepted, though she wasn’t there for the drink. She sat down with them in their modest home, sharing a simple conversation about the holiday and the winter outside. The boy continued to admire his new angel, his eyes glowing with the kind of happiness that no amount of money could buy.
As they talked, Aurelia realized that this moment, this simple exchange, was more valuable than any extravagant gift she could have given. It wasn’t about the price tag or the expectations. It was about the connection, the warmth shared between strangers on a cold winter’s night.
When it was time to leave, Aurelia stepped back out into the snow, feeling lighter than she had in days. The wind was cold against her face, but inside, she felt warm, content. She had found what Christmas was truly about—not the rush, not the material gifts, but the moments of kindness and human connection that brought warmth to even the coldest of nights.
As she walked home, the lights of the city twinkled in the distance, and the sounds of Christmas carols echoed faintly through the quiet streets. For the first time in years, Aurelia felt at peace, her heart filled with the quiet joy of giving without expectation.
By: Manav Kodnani
Write and Win: Participate in Creative writing Contest & International Essay Contest and win fabulous prizes.
