“W‑wow.”
Under a brilliant winter sky, a rare sight had appeared: overnight snow lay in a thick, even blanket over the whole neighborhood.
Since Christmas Eve the night before, it had been falling nonstop, and everyone in town was giddy.
(After the show the cast had told me a snowy Christmas was called a white Christmas.)
―Honestly, it’s already my fifth Christmas in this life; I’d heard the term on TV, but I still acted wildly impressed.
The RUN company was floating on air after our triumphant opening, and I wasn’t about to spoil the mood.
Yesterday evening’s first performance of RUN finished not just as expected, but better than expected.
Every actor shone; the audience’s response was electric. Even Jessica showed open satisfaction—no need to say more about quality.
Late last night after coming back home, Uncle helped me look up the fresh reviews with my name in them. The critics were unanimously positive.
A few crooked comments remained online, but I didn’t care; I could still see the satisfied faces leaving the theatre, and that memory made me glow inside.
“So pretty.”
The snow that had dumped down was piled high, untouched. Mom and I stood at the window, taking in the world turned white.
“Siwoo, do you want to go out and play in the snow?” she asked, seeing how my eyes sparkled.
Snow play! Even the phrase tasted sweet. Building a huge snowman, having a snowball fight with Mom—how fun would that be?
Since I became a child, my heart blazed whenever I saw snow, as if I wanted to dive right into it.
I remembered Sebastian, the Papillon puppy Oliver and I had raised back at Battenberg Manor.
Gentle and clever—until snow fell; then he’d go mad, dragging me into drifts.
After I was locked in the tower, after Oliver was driven out—was Sebastian okay? Had he been cast aside with me?
No. Enough of the melancholy. Mom was already studying me with puzzled eyes.
“Mm‑mm. Another time. If I catch a cold in the middle of the run, it’ll be a disaster.”
Since my expression had gone stiff, I answered in deliberately serious tones.
We’d only finished the first show. Today, Christmas Day, was Monday so the theatre was dark, but that was when I had to guard my condition. If the lead caught a cold everyone would suffer.
Mom’s eyes widened.
“My, our Siwoo’s all grown up.”
“Of course!”
I planted my fists on my hips, chest out.
Mom laughed, hugged me proudly—yet she kept glancing toward the other room.
What was going on? I followed her gaze.
“Uh, why don’t we get breakfast?” she said quickly.
“Okay… Where’s Dad?”
Dad usually ate breakfast with us— the chicken shop didn’t open till midday. (Uncle slept too late.)
“Oh, uh… Daddy had something to do early. Let’s eat first. Want to wash up?”
“Okay.”
I washed my face, sat at the table, and started on crisp toast and milk.
Suddenly the front door burst open.
“Hmm?”
Mouth full of toast, I looked up.
“Ho‑ho‑ho! Merry Christmas!”
There, awkwardly filling the doorway, stood Santa—or rather, Dad dressed as Santa.
A cottony white beard that didn’t suit him at all, a bright red hat, padding stuffed under the coat.
A sack slung across his back.
“Ho‑ho‑ho! Santa Claus is here!”
“Wow, Siwoo! Santa came to our house!” Mom clapped like a child.
So that’s why she kept glancing over—clearly a plan they’d cooked up for me.
“Ho‑ho‑ho! I heard a very good child lives here, so I brought a present!”
Santa lowered the sack and rummaged inside, pulling out a big box.
How could I not recognize Dad with that clumsy line? Oh, Dad—acting’s not done like that!
But I couldn’t ignore their effort.
I made my eyes round, slid off the chair, and ran over.
“Waaah! Santa Grandpa! Did you bring a present just for Siwoo?”
I cranked my excitement higher than usual. Surely a son should pretend to be fooled.
“Ho‑ho! Of course. Word reached the North Pole that Siwoo obeyed Mom and Dad all year!”
“Wow, let’s open it!”
Now Dad was getting into it; the lines came smoother.
I laughed inside and took the box. It’s bigger than I thought.
Opening a present first thing in the morning is pure joy. I truly felt excited as I ripped the wrap.
“Wooooow…”
Inside lay two neat hand puppets: a cute frog and a tiger. I slipped them onto both hands; opening and closing my fingers made their mouths flap.
“Look, Mom— the tiger talks!”
“Haha, lucky Siwoo!”
“Yup! Thank you, Santa Grandpa!”
I bowed deeply.
“Ho‑ho‑ho, do you like it?”
“Yes! Santa’s the best—thank you!”
Using the puppets’ thumbs and pinkies I made them bow too.
Santa chuckled in delight.
I hadn’t expected this gift: a puppet‑play set—perfect for a nearly‑six‑year‑old who loves acting.
Honestly, I was touched.
I put on a mini skit for Mom and Dad; the living room rang with laughter, and sleepy Uncle shuffled out.
“Oh—Santa’s here already!”
“What time did you go to bed?” Mom scolded.
“I’m up, aren’t I? Siwoo, Uncle’s got a Christmas present too!”
“Really? Wow!”
Still wearing the puppets I hurried over. The fabric was so soft I could keep them on all day.
Uncle ducked back, emerged with another big box.
“Ta‑da! Bet you’ll like this.”
“Waaah!”
A miniature car kit—two cars and build‑your‑own racetrack.
“Thanks, Uncle!” The puppets bowed again.
Uncle bent to whisper.
“A‑hem… Come to the small room later. Uncle bought a box of Meyer chocolates.”
“M‑Meyer…! Thanks, Uncle.”
Meyer chocolates: richer, creamier, sweeter than any other. They’re expensive, and Mom rarely let me have them. That earned Uncle a delighted hug around the neck.
“What did you promise him?” Mom asked, suspicious—her son hardly hugged anyone but her.
We froze like guilty statues.
“Oh, sis, come on—colleagues from the same troupe can have secrets,” Uncle laughed.
Mom eyed us but let it go—another event was queued.
“All right, shall we cut the cake?”
“Cake? For breakfast?”
“It’s Christmas! Santa should eat with us before he goes.”
“Ho‑ho‑ho,” Dad rumbled.
I could hardly believe such a cheerful scene.
Back in 17‑century England, Christmas celebrations had been banned; at Battenberg Manor we’d never marked the day. Parliament even prohibited carols.
Servants threw secret feasts; nobles held parties under other pretexts. Locked in a tower, I only smelled their food from afar.
Now everything was different. Carols and decorations I’d heard since infancy made my heart race— one of the happiest days of my year.
Even if we had chicken instead of goose, even if the Santa was fake…
“Time to blow out the candles!”
“Merry Christmas!”
“Foooo!”
One breath—candles out, everyone clapped.
Just as we were about to slice the cake, Mom pulled an envelope from behind her back.
“This is my Christmas present.”
“Huh?”
Inside were tickets to the musical A Midsummer Night’s Dream. These were almost impossible to get; Tickets sold out instantly.
My eyes flew wide.
“Mom! Thank you!”
I flung myself into her arms. A trembling voice came from behind the beard.
“You… bought that without telling me?”
Dad sounded half betrayed.
Oh no, Dad—don’t break character now! As a senior actor I had to keep him on script.
“Santa Grandpa, do you know my mom?”
I turned, puppets on hands. He floundered, speechless.
“Santa knows everything,” Mom prompted.
“Uh—yes! Ho‑ho‑ho! There’s nothing Santa doesn’t know!”
I gave him my brightest grin.
Relax, Dad—your son will protect your performance to the end.
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