Santa remained at the window for what might have been minutes or hours—time had become slippery, unreliable. The reflection staring back at him was undeniable: an exhausted old man wearing a red suit that suddenly felt like a costume rather than a calling.
He turned from the window and moved through his office with deliberate slowness, collecting the few personal items that mattered. The snow globe from 1823. A worn leather journal filled with three centuries of Christmas notes. A photograph of himself with the original reindeer team, all of them long since retired or passed on. These things he tucked into a canvas bag—not the elaborate sack he used for deliveries, but something ordinary. Something that didn't scream "magical Christmas legend."
As he worked, a knock came at the door. Soft, hesitant. Santa recognized the cadence immediately—it was Jingleberry, his most loyal elf, the one who'd been by his side for nearly a century.
Jingleberry stood in the doorway, his pointed ears drooping, his emerald eyes red-rimmed. Behind him, Santa could see other faces peering from the corridor—elves who'd worked alongside him for decades, their expressions a mixture of shock and heartbreak.
"Is it true?" Jingleberry asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Reginald's already announcing it in the workshop. He says he's implementing 'new leadership protocols.' He's... he's moving his office into yours."
Santa set down the snow globe and faced his friend. He wanted to rage, to promise that this was temporary, that he'd fix everything. But the words wouldn't come. Instead, he simply nodded.
"It is true," Santa said quietly. "I'm being replaced."
Jingleberry's face crumpled. "But sir, you built all of this. You are Christmas. What will happen to—"
"Everything will be fine," Santa interrupted, though he wasn't certain he believed it. "Reginald is very efficient. That's what matters now, apparently."
But as he said the words, Santa felt something settle in his chest—not acceptance exactly, but resignation. A profound, bone-deep weariness that suggested perhaps it was time to let someone else carry this burden. Perhaps it was time to be something other than Santa Claus.
Sign in to continue the story