Chapter 23 — Stockings for Sinners
The sleigh descended through a curtain of dawn-lit snow, gliding low over Elämä’s rooftops. The reindeer spirits sparkled faintly in the morning haze…not so much pulling the sleigh as following its purpose.
Chuck leaned over the side, squinting through the frost. “Still can’t believe this place was rebuilt without asking for my input.”
Dax smirked. “That’s how you know it’s doing better.”
I balanced my ledger on one knee, writing furiously as we passed above the cobbled streets. “Chronicle entry,” I muttered, “The wizard returns not to conquer or confess, but to deliver unorthodox charity and unsolicited wisdom.”
Chuck shot me a look. “Less poetic, more helpful.”
He rummaged through the sack at his feet. It wasn’t full of toys or gold. It was full of oddities: half-finished letters, broken trinkets, a chipped mug with Gwen’s rune carved faintly into its base. Every item radiated faint warmth, fragments of apology stitched into gifts.
I peered over my spectacles. “You’re gifting emotional baggage.”
Chuck grinned. “Call it recycling.”
The sleigh dipped toward the first window. Chuck leaned out and dropped the chipped mug. With a faint glow, it behaved as if sliding down a chute…doing a curly cue, through the window frame and into an open stocking. The coal in his coat glowed in quiet approval.
I clapped. “Nice shot!”
“Thank YOU,” Chuck grinned.
Dax frowned. “You sure that’s… useful?”
“Maybe not to them,” Chuck said. “But to the man who made it, it means something again. That’s enough.”
We moved from street to street, the sleigh drifting like a thought between dreams.
A broken compass landed in the home of a sailor who’d lost his way.
A cracked violin string was tucked beside a luthier’s tools.
A single feather…once part of a fallen angel’s quill, now faintly warm…slipped into a poet’s boot.
Everywhere the gifts fell, lights flickered in response. Tiny embers reawakening in windowsills and hearts alike.
Dax leaned back, watching the rippling glow spread through Elämä. “You’re turning regret into redemption.”
Chuck shrugged. “Gwen always said laughter lasts longer than guilt. Now I’m just proving her right.”
I smirked. “You’re also proving she was smarter than you.”
“Everyone was smarter than me,” Chuck said. “But not everyone gets a second chance to say sorry in bulk.”
We passed over the river where a bridge arched like a frozen smile. Children ran along the banks, pointing upward at the gleam of the sleigh. Their laughter echoed against the stone.
Dax glanced down, a grin spreading.
Chuck glared. “Don’t you dare spit.”
We glided toward the main square. The Tavern of Lost Causes…rebuilt, reborn…stood proud against the frost. Its sign hung straight for the first time in years, and smoke curled from the chimney like a sigh that finally exhaled.
Chuck reached into the sack and pulled the last item: a tiny stocking, empty except for a pebble-sized lump of coal.
He held it a long time, thumb brushing the rune etched faintly into its surface. Then he smiled,…a peaceful one, instead of bravado, and tossed it toward the tavern’s hearth.
It disappeared in the smoke.
Inside, a faint golden glow flickered in response. One heartbeat, then another.
I closed my ledger and sighed, softer than I meant to. “And that’s how it ends?”
“No,” Chuck said. “That’s how it begins again.”
He tugged gently on the reins. “Come on. We’ve got a few more believers to disappoint.”
Dax chuckled. “Finally, a mission I can get behind.”
As the sleigh lifted back into the sunrise, I opened a fresh page and wrote the title for the next chronicle in neat, deliberate script:
The Forgiveness Clause.
The ink bled slightly on the paper.
Even the story didn’t want to end too cleanly.
Below us, the town woke slowly. Doors opened. Lanterns flared. Somewhere, a child found a chipped mug still warm to the touch and smiled without knowing why.
Chuck looked down, voice quiet. “You ever think,” he said, “that maybe forgiveness isn’t what we give? Maybe it’s what we finally let ourselves keep.”
I tapped my quill against the page. “Remind me to quote that later.”
He grinned. “You won’t need to, Höbin. You’ll feel it.”
The sleigh rose higher, clearing the last of the rooftops. The reindeer spirits gleamed against the sunrise, trailing ribbons of frostlight through the thinning clouds.
Dax stretched and muttered, “Next time, can we save the world somewhere warmer?”
“No promises,” Chuck said. “But let’s do a flyby of Andilain, shall we?”
“King Robert III might not like that,” I warned.
“Bobby boy always loved stories of Santa,” Chuck snorted. “He’ll squeal when he sees the actual sleigh.”
Dax gave a supportive nod.
Chuck grinned. “Let’s do it.”
The bells on the harness chimed once—soft, deliberate,…an exhale through time.
The sleigh turned east, where the day was waiting.
The city grew small beneath us, but the light it carried stayed bright. It was carried in every window, every laugh, every heart that remembered what it was to give without fear.
I closed my ledger again.
The words could wait.
I just wanted to watch the miracle breathe.
And though I’d never admit it aloud, my quill trembled just a little.
