Dear Santa

Julian Cross hadn’t set foot in the North Pole in almost ten years, yet his feet remembered the terrain as if he’d never left.

His body reacted before his mind did, carrying him around the first paving stone near the old toy shop, the one that still tilted beneath a careless step. His suitcases dragged behind him, their wheels catching in the thin crust of snow covering the pavement. Each step produced a brittle crunch beneath his boots, the sound too loud in the quiet afternoon, announcing his return.

He paused at the edge of Main Street and looked toward the square.

The North Pole had always seemed larger when he was young. Back then, the street was his whole world, winding between toy shops, bakeries, workshops, candy shops, and cottages with candy-striped awnings. Every doorway seemed to lead somewhere magical, and Julian had believed the people who lived there knew secrets the rest of the world didn't.

Most of all, he had believed his father was Santa Claus.

Not the Santa Claus from picture books or department-store windows, but the real one. The man who knew every child’s name, could fix anything, and disappeared into the workshop late at night with a knowing smile. Julian had been certain he was an elf, too, his father’s smallest helper, waiting for the day he would be trusted with the important work. The North Pole wasn’t simply where he lived; it was the centre of the world, and he belonged to its magic.

Then he entered the real world.

The first time he left the village, he expected the magic to follow him. Instead, the streets were wider, the buildings taller, and no one seemed to know or care who his father was. No one cared that Julian had grown up beneath a painted sign or that he could name every workshop by the sound of its tools.

That was when he began to understand. Christmas was simply a child’s story. The magic belonged to the village, to his father, and to the boy Julian had once been. It didn’t belong in the real world.

A cold gust of wind brought him back to the present. Now the buildings appeared closer together, their painted facades softened by age and weather. The street still curved through the village like a smile, but the comparison felt less comforting than it once had.

Christmas lights stretched between the shopfronts, their subtle glow gathering in the blue shadows of the afternoon like captured fireflies. Fresh wreaths filled the windows, red berries stark against green boughs, while garlands wound around the streetlamps and released the sharp scent of pine whenever the wind shifted.

Outside Mrs Claus’s Kitchen, someone had chalked HOT CHOCOLATE onto a blackboard beneath a drawing of a remarkably muscular gingerbread man flexing its cookie biceps holding hot chocolate. One arm was larger than the other, and the icing outline around its waist had been smudged.

Julian stopped despite himself.

The chalk work was familiar. Noah.

His childhood friend had always drawn as if precision were an insult. His reindeer had mismatched antlers, his snowmen leaned dangerously to one side, and his gingerbread men looked less like baked goods and more like tiny athletes preparing for competition.

Julian remembered when he had told him that no one wanted to drink cocoa beneath an advertisement featuring a pastry with visible abdominal muscles. Noah had replied that Julian was jealous because he couldn’t draw abs. The memory arrived with such clarity that Julian found him smiling.

A couple walked out of the bakery holding hands, sharing what looked like the hot chocolate from Noah’s artwork. When the wind snatched a napkin from beneath the cup, one of them hurried after it, laughing as it skittered across the pavement. The other followed giggling, holding the drink out of the wind.

Julian watched them disappear toward the square and felt the ache of everything he had lost.

He wasn’t here for love. He wasn’t even here for Christmas. He was here because the city had become unbearable after his very public breakup. Every street led back to the life he had lost, every room held the shape of someone who was no longer there, and every attempt to move on left him feeling more alone.

His sister had been the one to give him somewhere else to go.

He’d called her at two am on a Tuesday, drunk and crying so hard he could barely get the words out. He had been sitting on the kitchen floor drinking whiskey straight out of it's bottle, staring at the empty space where his ex-boyfriend’s things one were.

“Come home, Jules,” his sister had said.

“I don’t think I’d be very good company.” His voice had been rough, the words catching in his throat like splinters.

“Excellent. I need someone to complain to about real life problems.” Her tone was so casual, as if they were discussing the weather instead of the wreckage of his life.

He had laughed then, unexpectedly and badly, the sound breaking the kitchen’s stillness. Evie had stayed on the phone while he cried, the silence between them stretching until he could finally breathe again.

Now he was here.

The North Pole had never been a real town, although as a child he’d found the distinction unimportant. Its Main Street ran through the family’s property, linking the shops and the inn to the square where their grandfather had insisted every Christmas tree should be taller than strictly necessary. Beyond it stood the guest cottages, a carousel with its painted horses and a Ferris wheel.

Julian kept walking, his body guiding him to a location that was carved into his being.

The Cross inn stood at the end of the lane, a broad, two-storey stone building with ivy gripping the wall beside its porch like an old friend. Candle lamps glowed warmly in the upstairs windows, promising comfort within. Smoke rose from the chimney in steady grey plumes, and the wooden sign above the steps still showed a crescent moon wearing a Santa hat, painted in cheerful reds and whites.

He had painted the hat the summer he turned fifteen, balancing on a rickety ladder while Evie held the paint can and offered unhelpful commentary. From here, he could see the oversized pompom concealing a drip where his hand had slipped.

A plywood reindeer decorated with what looked like excessive glitter detached from its nail and tipped off the porch. Julian dropped a suitcase with a thud that scattered snow, caught the reindeer against his chest, and said something unsuitable for a family attraction.

“Got him?” A amused voice called, carrying through the cold air.

He peered over a glittering red nose that had already shed some of its sparkle onto his coat.

His sister stood on a stepladder with a staple gun in one hand, while a length of garland looped around her shoulders like a fashionable scarf. Auburn hair had escaped the loose bun at the back of her head, with a pencil holding it together at an angle that suggested it might fall out at any moment. A faint smudge of green paint marked one cheek, and a strand of tinsel clung stubbornly to the sleeve of her sweater.

She looked exactly like Evie. Same sharp chin, same expressive eyebrows, same eyes assessing a situation before deciding whether it deserved her concern. Only difference was it was considerably more tired than the last time he had seen her. There were shadows beneath her hazel eyes, and the corners of her mouth held the faint strain of someone who had been managing too many things without asking for help.

“Lovely to see you too,” Julian said, shifting the reindeer before its oversized head knocked against his chin.

“Don’t put him in the snow,” Evie warned, pointing the staple gun at him.

“The flight was fine, thank you,” he replied, glancing down at the reindeer’s crooked antler. “How thoughtful of you to ask.”

“Jules,” she said, and this time his name carried the quiet warning of a sister who had known him long enough to recognise when he was deflecting.

He propped the reindeer against a dry section of wall, taking care to keep its painted hooves out of the slush. Its remaining antler caught his scarf on the way down and jerked him forward, nearly choking him.

“Careful,” Evie said, climbing down from the ladder. “I’d hate to explain to Mum that you were defeated by a plywood reindeer before you’d even made it inside.”

“I had him under control,” Julian muttered, rubbing his throat.

“Of course you did.”

She stepped onto the last rung, tucked the staple gun into the pocket of her cardigan, and crossed the short distance between them. Then she wrapped her arms around him before he could make another joke.

She smelled of vanilla, cold wool, along with the faint pine scent that seemed to cling to everything in the North Pole. Beneath it all was something warmer and harder to name: the familiar comfort of home.

Julian’s hands hovered awkwardly at his sides for half a second before he folded them around her. He closed his eyes and let himself lean into the embrace, the cold finally beginning to leave his bones.

He closed his eyes and breathed in the familiar scent. For one suspended moment, he was younger again, standing in this same doorway with snow melting into his boots and his sister’s arms around him.

“Hey,” she murmured, her voice muffled against his coat.

“Hey,” he replied, though the word came out rougher than he intended.

She stepped back but kept one hand on his arm. Her gaze moved over his face, pausing beneath his eyes, at the unshaven line of his jaw, and at the tiredness he had failed to hide beneath the journey.

“You look tired,” she observed.

“I was aiming for mysterious and world-weary,” he said, attempting a smile.

The corner of her mouth lifted, but concern remained in her eyes. “Have you eaten?”

“The airport sold me something described as a sandwich,” he told her. “The bread had the consistency of cardboard, and the filling was a mystery even to the person selling it.”

“That wasn’t what I asked,” Evie replied, giving him the look that had once made him confess to breaking the sitting-room lamp.

Julian opened his mouth to defend himself, but his stomach betrayed him with a low, hollow growl.

Evie glanced down at it. “I’ll take that as a no.”

“I had coffee.”

“Coffee isn’t food.”

“It had milk in it.”

“Milk isn’t a meal.”

Before he could offer another argument, she bent to pick up his fallen suitcase. The muscles in her arms flexed with the effort, and the wheels rattled against the wooden porch as she dragged it towards the door.

“I can carry that,” Julian protested.

“I know,” she said, not looking back. “You can also feed yourself, but apparently we’re both making disappointing choices today.”

She opened the door, and warmth met him in the entrance hall. It carried cinnamon, pine, and the buttery smell of something baking. Sugar cookies, if his memory served him correctly. The scent reached beneath the exhaustion and found the hollow place inside him.

His stomach made another undignified noise, louder this time, echoing through the quiet hall.

Evie turned slowly to look at him.

Julian lifted his chin. “That was the door.”

“The door is hungry?”

“It’s been a long journey.”

“Come on,” she said, tugging his suitcase over the threshold. “Before the door eats all the cookies.”

He followed her inside, trying not to smile and failing.

They left his cases beside reception. He followed her past the check-in counter, where a bowl of candy canes stood beside a guest book with worn leather corners, and into the common room.

The stone fireplace occupied most of one wall, a low fire burning above its neatly swept hearth. The familiar floral armchairs were arranged around it, their upholstery faded in spots that had seen years of guests leaning back to get comfortable.

A Christmas tree stood beside the window, heavy with painted stars and wooden ornaments that their grandfather had carved by hand. Garlands looped along the dark ceiling beams, their needles casting miniature shadows on the floor. Someone had put his childhood stocking on the mantel: a lumpy green object that had never convincingly resembled footwear, decorated with clumsy red stitching where their mother had attempted to add his name in cursive.

Julian stopped beside it, running a finger over the faded fabric.

“Mum kept that?” Julian asked, running his thumb over the faded stitching.

“She phoned specifically to check I’d put it out,” Evie replied. “She was very insistent.”

“Retirement's given her too much leisure time,” he said, glancing towards the ceiling as though their mother might be listening from several states away.

“She also wants a photograph of you beside the tree.”

“She has photographs. Boxes of them.” Julian gestured towards the mantel. “There are probably enough to document every questionable haircut I’ve ever had.”

“Recent ones where you aren’t holding a drink or rolling your eyes,” Evie said.

He considered that, looking from the stocking to the tree and then back at his sister. “Demanding.”

“Stand beside the tree,” Evie ordered, taking out her phone.

“Do I at least get a biscuit before the family publicity campaign begins?” Julian asked.

“Two if you smile.”

“Now you’re negotiating,” he said, though the corner of his mouth had already begun to lift.

She caught his sleeve and drew him closer, turning the camera towards them both. Julian bent his head to fit beside hers. On the screen, he could see the tiredness around his eyes, the glitter clinging to his coat, and his sister smiling as though none of it mattered.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Will saying no make a difference?”

“Never has.”

He laughed just as she took the picture.

Evie studied it for a moment, then showed him. Her cheek was pressed against his shoulder. His mouth was open, caught halfway through a laugh he hadn’t needed to force.

“Keeping that one,” she said.

He let her.

She tucked the phone away and reached up to brush a fleck of glitter from his collar. Julian stood still beneath the familiar fussing, listening to the fire settle in the grate. For once, he didn’t feel the need to apologise for arriving tired, or explain why he hadn’t come sooner. His sister was already telling him where she’d hidden the good biscuits.

He was finally home.