A Public Note from Saint Nicholas

To the Parents Who Will Never Receive a Gift Again

My name is known across the world.

To children, I am Santa Claus.

To parents, I am a story, a myth, a lie wrapped in ribbons and tinsel. But I have been here far longer than your modern traditions. I have walked this earth, unseen and unheard, carrying the weight of Christmas upon my back for centuries.

I have delivered joy to the deserving. Hope to the lost. Light to the dark corners of the world.

But on the night of December 24th, as my sleigh touched down upon the snow-blanketed rooftops of North Dakota, I found a place where even Christmas Magic struggled to take hold.

A place where the spirit of the holiday—the spirit of childhood itself—was already gone.

The Asylum That Shouldn't Exist

I do not enter through doors. I do not need to. I pass through chimneys, through cracks in the world where warmth and belief still flicker.

But this place...

It had no warmth.

The asylum stood alone in the endless, white abyss of Dakota's winter. No decorations. No lights. No laughter. Just an ugly, monolithic building that had no place in Christmas.

The world had forgotten about it, I realized.

And so had the parents who had left their children here.

I entered, unseen, as I always do. The hallways were long and lifeless, lined with doors that should have been locked—but hung slightly open, creaking on rusted hinges. The smell inside was thick with dust and something rotten.

The children were not asleep.

Nor were they awake.

They sat in their beds, hollow-eyed, their skin pale beneath the flickering fluorescent lights. Some stared at the ceiling. Others at the walls.

None of them noticed me.

And that terrified me more than anything I had ever seen.

Because children always notice me.

Even the ones who stop believing.

Even the ones too old for gifts.

They feel my presence, even if they don't understand it. Their hearts beat a little faster, their eyes flick toward the chimney, toward the window.

But these children—

They didn't react.

They didn't blink.

They didn't even recognize me.

I Had to Reveal Myself

I have walked through the nightmares of children.

I have heard their whispered fears, their bedtime prayers, their silent wishes.

But this place—this place had no wishes left.

So I did something I have not done in over a century.

I revealed myself.

In front of them, I let them see me.

The warm red suit. The snow-kissed beard. The twinkle of Christmas magic in my very presence.

And they...

Did not react.

A girl with hollow cheeks turned her head slightly, but not toward me.

A boy with sunken eyes blinked, but his gaze did not meet mine.

They were not ignoring me.

They could not see me.

Something had already taken them away.

The Magic Worked... But Not as Expected

I reached into my sack.

Not for toys.

But for something older. Something deeper. A piece of Christmas magic reserved only for the most desperate, the most forsaken.

I sprinkled it into the air, let it drift down like golden snowflakes.

I whispered to them.

Remember.

And for the first time in years—they reacted.

The girl gasped, eyes widening, her lips parting as if she had suddenly realized she was alive.

The boy screamed.

Others followed.

Shrieks of terror, of pain, of something worse than fear.

They clutched at their heads, at their chests. They thrashed, kicking off thin, stained sheets.

One child curled into himself, sobbing. Another clawed at his arms as if something was crawling beneath his skin.

I had given them back their memories.

And they did not want them.

What Was Done to Them?

I do not know who ran this place.

I do not know what was done to these children.

But I know this:

They were not abandoned here.

They were taken here.

And something—or someone—had stripped them of their selves.

I could not undo what was done. Even Christmas magic has its limits.

But I could release them.

And so, with great sorrow, I did.

I let the magic take hold.

One by one, they closed their eyes.

One by one, they let go.

By the time the sun rose on Christmas morning, the asylum was empty.

The beds were made. The halls were silent.

The children were gone.

And I pray that wherever they are now, it is better than where they were.

To the Parents Who Will Never Receive a Gift Again

This note is my condolence to you.

Your children did not run away.

They did not abandon you.

They were taken.

I do not know by whom.

But I know this:

Even Christmas could not save them.

And for the first time in my long, long existence—

I feel like Christmas has failed.