The night sky stretched black and endless above the snowy plains as Santa, Bernard, and their elven companions prepared for their journey to Dromstead.

The North Star shimmered brightly overhead, casting a silver path across the frozen fields.
The wind was still; the world was hushed, as if holding its breath.

Each carried a heavy pack slung across their shoulders, stuffed full of carefully wrapped gifts.  The bundles swayed with their steps as they moved silently under the cover of darkness, their boots crunching softly over the glittering snow.

Not a word was spoken.
There was no need.
Each heart knew the importance of this night.

Hours later, the ragged outlines of Dromstead came into view — squat cottages and narrow lanes dusted with fresh snow.  The village slept, unaware of the approaching miracle.

Santa raised a hand, and the group fanned out.

Working in teams, they moved house to house, leaving bundles at every doorstep:

• A pair of mittens resting on a stoop, the Star of Giving carved into a button.
• A child's toy tucked carefully atop a stack of firewood.
• A small hammer and a coil of new rope left by the smithy's door.
• Dried herbs and teas placed gently outside the apothecary’s shutters.

Even the poorest homes — those almost collapsing into the snow — received gifts: thick blankets stitched with loving care, and small bags of dried meat and bread.

At each house, Santa paused, pressing a hand lightly to the doorframe, whispering a wish:

"May this gift bring you warmth,
May it bring you hope,
May it remind you that you are loved."

Then he moved on, his red cloak a flicker of color against the night.

As the last gifts were placed, a strange and beautiful thing happened.

The bells on Santa’s pack — ordinary brass when he left the North Pole — began to jingle, ever so softly, even though no hand touched them.  A warm, golden glow seemed to shimmer faintly around the bundles.

It was not a magic of spells or wands.
It was the magic of kindness freely given, the oldest and strongest magic of all.

The Elves, sensing it too, paused in the snow, faces uplifted toward the stars.  Bernard wiped a gloved hand across his eyes, pretending the cold made them water.

At the edge of town, Santa gathered the group once more.

He looked back at Dromstead, where the first hints of dawn were beginning to color the eastern sky.

"They will wake soon," he said.
"And they will wonder."

Bernard grinned. "You think they'll know it was you?"

Santa shook his head. "It doesn't matter if they do.
The joy is the gift.
The wonder is the wrapping."

The group stood in silence a moment longer, watching as the faintest curl of smoke began to rise from the first chimneys.  Children would soon rub sleep from their eyes, stumble to their doorsteps... and find wonder waiting for them. 

Without another word, they turned and vanished into the snowy woods, the last jingle of bells fading into the morning light.

Thus began the first Christmas Eve —
A night when gifts would be given in secret,
When hearts would be warmed without ever seeing the hand that gave,
When the spirit of Christmas took root in the world forever.