Granny Dorothy sat at the kitchen table, knitting thick woollen socks with careful, even stitches. Though her passport read Dorothy Margaret, the village knew her simply as Dot—a familiar, affectionate name that suited her kind nature.
The house was silent with winter’s hush, broken only by the faint crackle of the radio on the windowsill. Then, the door creaked open. Dot glanced up—and froze. There, on the doorstep, stood none other than Father Christmas himself: red hat, snowy beard, fur-trimmed coat—just as he ought to look.
“Good evening, Dottie!” he greeted her warmly. “Mind if I come in?”
Adjusting her spectacles, Dot studied the visitor—his sack, his boots—before exhaling in disbelief.
“Good heavens, is it really you? But why on earth would you—?”
“Why else?” he chuckled. “It’s the 31st of December! The whole world’s ringing in the New Year. And I’ve brought you a gift.”
“But why me, an old thing like me? You ought to be visiting children, listening to stories. What am I? Just an old woman who’s long past expecting presents.”
“There’s barely a child left in the village these days. But those socks of yours—now, that’s warmth worth celebrating,” he nodded at her knitting. “That means you’ve earned something special.”
“Well, if you insist, go on then,” Dot smirked. “But don’t expect a festive verse from me—my back’s playing up something dreadful today.”
“Then tell me—what good have you done this year?”
“Oh, nothing much,” she mused. “Knitted mittens for the grandkids, socks for the neighbours. Gave away some veg from the garden. Hardly kindness—just a way to pass the time.”
“Don’t be modest. True kindness *is* doing things without expecting a reward.”
“Between you and me, my old man’s out wandering again. Left this morning—not a word since.”
“Ah, I meant to pop by him too. Still the same old charmer, is he?”
“Oh, worse than ever! Cheering folks up with tall tales and songs, making sure no one spends the day glum.”
“And you love him, don’t you?”
“What do *you* reckon?” Dot smiled. “Fifty years together. We pretend we’re deaf, that we miss half of what’s said or seen. Never argue. What’s the point?”
Father Christmas reached into his sack and pulled out a shawl—soft wool, intricately patterned, glimmering faintly.
“Here, for you. Wear it, and you’ll feel ten years younger.”
“Goodness, it’s lovely!” Her eyes sparkled. “I’ve dreamed of one like this all my life. Thank you!”
“Thank your husband,” he winked. “He’s the one who wrote to me.”
He stepped into the hall, shed his coat and hat, and tucked them into a chest.
“My dear Dot,” he murmured. “Didn’t recognise her own Alfred’s voice. Or perhaps she’s pretending?”
Meanwhile, Dot twirled before the mirror in her new shawl, whispering:
“That’s how it is, Alfie… Acting like we notice nothing. But we do. We just love in our own way. And the magic—well, it’s in *that*.”
*Sometimes, the greatest wonders aren’t in the grand gestures, but in the quiet love that needs no explaining.*
