December 1st: Noel
CHAPTER One — “December 1st: Noel”
Noel didn’t cry when the airplane landed.
He didn’t cry when the snow kissed his cheeks like tiny needles.
He didn’t even cry when his parents hugged him quickly—too quickly—and handed him over to the stranger who was technically his uncle.
He was used to it.
He was used to the rush, the noise, the suitcase, the “We’ll make it up to you,” the promises that broke like ornaments every year.
His mother’s voice had been sharp that morning, sharper than the cold.
“Noel, stop slouching. You’re embarrassing us.”
And his father hadn’t even looked up from his phone. Apparently texting someone important for his business trip.
Now they were already in the taxi again, waving half-heartedly.
“Be good,” his mother said.
“As if he ever is,” his father muttered.
Then they were gone.
Just like always.
Noel stood in the quiet of early December, fingers curled around his small suitcase handle and teddy bear on one hand and sniffled because of the cold.
He was nine, but the world made him feel much older—like someone who had learned how to stop wanting things.
The man beside him cleared his throat.
Mateo.
Noel knew the name, but not the person.
He remembered seeing him once when he was very little—before his parents stopped going to family gatherings, before his mother said, “Your uncle is a bad influence,” and the silence grew between their families.
Mateo had dark circles under his eyes and smelled faintly of cigarettes and coffee.
He didn’t smile much.
Or maybe he didn’t remember how.
“You must be Noel,” he said, voice rough from the cold—or from life.
Noel nodded obviously feeling uneasy.
“I’m… Mateo. Your uncle.” He said awkwardly.
Another nod.
They stood awkwardly for a moment before walking to the small silver car that coughed when it started. Mateo placed Noel’s suitcase in the back and drove through snowy Norwegian streets lined with warm windows and twinkling lights—everything Noel wished he could feel.
“You’ve grown,” Mateo murmured.
Noel didn’t answer.
He didn’t know how to talk to adults who didn’t know how to talk to him.
After a few minutes, Mateo tried again.
“They told me it’s just for December.”
Noel’s breath fogged the window.
“They always say that.”
Mateo’s hands tightened around the steering wheel and paused not knowing what else to say and continued driving.
The apartment was small but warm, with mismatched furniture and one crooked Christmas decoration taped to the wall—as if someone had tried, sighed dramatically, and given up halfway.
(Which was exactly what Mateo had done. The tape residue was still stuck to his thumb.)
“You hungry?” Mateo asked putting his suitcase on top of the table.
Noel shrugged.
(He was. He was starving. He could eat the crooked decoration if absolutely necessary. But he’d learned to pretend he wasn’t.)
“I can make noodles. Or… toast. What do you want kid?"
“Toast is okay,” Noel whispered.
The toast came out burnt—like aggressively burnt. Mateo stared at it as if it had personally offended him.
“Ah. Perfect,” he said flatly. "Uh... snack is ready I guess?"
Noel still ate it. He’d had worse. Once, his dad burned soup. Soup. Noel still hadn’t figured out how.
Mateo sat across from him, tapping the wooden table with restless fingers—like a woodpecker with anxiety.
“So…” he began slowly. “Your parents said they’re… busy. Work stuff.”
Noel stared at the crumbs that were now basically charcoal dust.
“Do you miss them?” He whispered looking at the child zoing out.
“They fight a lot.”
Mateo froze mid-tap, finger still in the air like a paused cartoon character.
“My dad said I’m too much trouble. And my mom said she can’t handle me right now because she’s stressed.”
He pulled his sleeves over his hands, practically disappearing into the sweater like a sad Norwegian turtle.
“They say it’s just until after Christmas. But they say that every year.”
Mateo swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing like it was trying to escape.
“They don’t hit me,” Noel added quickly—like he was protecting them.
“They just… forget me.”
The silence grew heavy.
Mateo leaned back, exhaling shakily.
“Kid… nobody should feel forgotten.”
He pointed at the crooked Christmas decoration.
“Not even that thing. And I’m two seconds away from throwing it out the window.”
For the first time that day, Noel looked up.
Mateo didn’t look away.
“You sure you’ll be alright here?” Mateo asked.
Noel nodded.
“Yes, Uncle Mateo.”
The word Uncle hit him so hard he sat up straighter, as if someone had smacked him with a warm fuzzy feeling he wasn’t prepared for.
“Good. I’ll try, okay?” Mateo said quietly. “I’m not perfect. I mess up a lot. Like—” he waved at the burnt toast, “—clearly.”
Noel nodded solemnly with a small smile. The toast really proved his point.
“But I’ll try to make this a good Christmas for you.”
Noel blinked.
No one had ever promised him that.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Mateo pointed at the decoration again.
“And tomorrow, we’re hanging more of those. But like… straight this time. I believe in us.”
Mateo showed Noel the small guest room.
The sheets didn’t match.
The pillow had a coffee stain.
The curtains were too short.
But Noel smiled softly.
“It’s warm,” he said.
Mateo nodded. “If you need anything, I’m in the living room. And if you get scared, or cold, or anything—just tell me.”
“Okay.”
Mateo left the door cracked so light would spill into the room.
He didn’t want the kid to sleep in the dark.
He collapsed onto the couch, rubbing both hands over his tired face.
He felt everything—fear, guilt, protectiveness, confusion.
From the hallway, he heard a soft whisper:
“Jesus… please help Uncle Mateo. He looks like he needs You.”
Mateo froze.
No one had prayed for him in years.
No one had even cared enough to try.
He stared at the ceiling, eyes burning.
Maybe—just maybe—this December could be different.
In the quiet of the first night of December, Noel whispered one last, tiny prayer:
“And God… please help us find each other this Christmas.”
Mateo’s breath trembled.
What an open-minded honest kid,
Maybe we already have, he thought.
Outside, the snow kept falling—
quiet, soft,
like grace.
End Of Chapter One.
