He's making a list. He's checking it twice. He's going to find out who's naughty or nice.

And then he's carefully filing all the letters and lists and wishes and kisses into the correct boxes, each embossed with a single name. He's carrying them through the baroque corridors, into the halls where gold and marble and alabaster climb between towering shelves. The high ceiling's ancient frescoes glow jewel-bright, and through the windows the arcane light of the aurora borealis is blinding.

He's climbing the ladders, and placing each box, each report, each childhood back in its comfortable place with a father's care. He's whispering to them, words of comfort or counsel, and half a world away each child stirs in their sleep for a moment or two.

He sees you when you're sleeping. He knows when you're awake. And whether you are five or a hundred and five, he is so proud of how much you've grown.

Merry Christmas.