I. The Lonely House and the Worn Crutch

Arthur was a shadow. Not the shimmering shadow of a celebrated hero, but the coarse, solid black shadow of time, stretched across the cold oak floor.

His name, Arthur, was once synonymous with the blast of artillery and the smell of gunpowder. He was a Marine Private, who had dedicated his entire youth and a significant portion of his body to the country in distant wars. Now, at 78, all that remained were snow-white hair, deep-set eyes that held terrifying memories, and most importantly, the wooden crutch always by his side.

His left leg, ever since a fatal wound on the battlefield, had become a useless mass and had to be replaced by a clumsy prosthetic. Walking was always a torment; every step was accompanied by the slow, heavy clop… clop… of the crutch. It was those wounds, those years of service, that had robbed him of the chance to build a normal home.

Arthur had no wife, no children, and no grandchildren. He was the last man of his line, living secluded in a small house on Lac Hong Street, where every corner shone brightly with Christmas lights.

Tonight was Christmas Eve.

Outside, the first snowflakes were fluttering down. The cheerful sounds of laughter, the clear chime of bells from the nearby church, and the sweet scent of butter cookies, all blended into a symphony of happiness that Arthur, sitting beside his old fireplace, could only hear and imagine.

He looked out the window, where families were rushing indoors to embrace, where children in bright red coats were excitedly showing off their first Christmas gifts. His heart felt heavy. For over fifty years, he had been accustomed to this loneliness. But on Christmas Eve, that loneliness was like an invisible giant, tightening its grip around his hardened heart.

“Serving the country,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “In return for peace for them, and coldness for me.”

He took a sip of his now-cold coffee; the bitterness spread on his tongue. He was getting ready for bed, ignoring the festive boom outside. The lights were off, only the weak firelight danced on the wall holding his only black-and-white photo—a young Marine, smiling innocently under the desert sun.

II. The Strange Knock

Just as Arthur used his crutch to push himself up, preparing to shuffle toward the bedroom, a knock sounded on the door.

Knock… knock… knock…

The knock was firm, yet strangely gentle. Arthur froze. Who could be visiting him at this hour? He had no close friends. Neighbors only offered polite greetings.

He edged toward the door, his hand trembling as he unlocked the safety bolt. Through the narrow gap, he saw a small figure.

It was a boy.

The boy’s name was Liam. Liam had just moved in with his parents across the street last week. He was about eight years old, small, with large, bright eyes that sparkled like two marbles under the porch light.

And what almost made Arthur laugh was Liam’s attire.

The boy was wearing an oversized, bright red winter coat, likely his mother’s. He wore a red wool hat that he had tried to pull down over his eyebrows. And beneath the hat, the boy had clumsily drawn a white, smudged beard with a marker, looking nothing like the thick beard of the legendary Santa Claus.

Liam stood straight, trying to maintain the most solemn demeanor possible.

“Good evening, sir,” Liam spoke, his voice slightly shaky from the cold, but he tried to sound deep and resonant. “I am Santa Claus.”

Arthur, who had faced the most tense moments of his life under the enemy’s guns, now found his throat tightening at this ridiculous sight.

He looked at his crutch, then at the boy’s smeared face.

“Oh,” Arthur replied, trying to keep his voice steady. “Santa Claus. Are you lost, kid? I don’t recall ordering coal this year.”

Liam seemed undeterred by the gentle sarcasm. He took a step closer, revealing a small box, carefully wrapped in old newspaper and tied with a faded red rope.

III. A Gift from “Santa Claus”

“No,” Liam said, shaking his head, nearly dislodging his wool hat. “My dad said Christmas isn’t just for those who have gifts to receive, but also for those who deserve to be remembered.”

The boy held up the box. “My grandpa said, soldiers are the real heroes. They break their legs saving others, but never complain.”

Arthur was stunned upon hearing this. Liam’s parents were quite busy people, but it seemed the boy’s grandfather, a veteran of a previous generation, had managed to tell him about the “crippled old fool” living down the street.

“This gift,” Liam continued, “is for you, Marine Arthur. You gave us peace.”

Liam placed the box in Arthur’s hand. Its weight was featherlight, perhaps no heavier than a handful of chewing gum.

Arthur gripped the box, the rough feel of the old newspaper and the rope touching his bony palm. This was the first Christmas gift he had received in over forty years.

“Thank you, kid,” was all Arthur could manage to say.

Liam, having completed his noble mission as an amateur Santa Claus, quickly retreated. “Merry Christmas, sir. Wishing you a peaceful and warm Christmas!”

With that, the boy turned and quickly ran into the snow-covered night, his tiny footsteps blending with the burst of laughter from the house across the street.

Arthur stood frozen for a long moment. He closed the door, leaned against it, and slowly, crutch in hand, walked back to the fireplace.

He gently placed the box on the floor and used a small knife to carefully cut the rope. Inside, there was no gold, silver, or chocolate.

It was a card made of cardboard, clumsily colored with crayons. On the front, Liam had drawn a large man with a crutch, standing next to a tiny Christmas tree. A large star topped the tree, and the words were scribbled in marker:

“TO MY HERO, MERRY CHRISTMAS. FROM SANTA LIAM.”

On the back of the card, Liam had carefully taped a small metal badge. It was a simple star-shaped badge that his grandfather had given him, perhaps a priceless family heirloom. Liam had sacrificed his “treasure” to give to him.

Arthur, who had witnessed his comrades fall and the brutality of war without shedding a single tear, now felt a stinging in the corner of his eyes. Not from sorrow, but from the sudden, silent warmth.

IV. The Return of Warmth

He put the card down and gently picked up the badge, the firelight reflecting brightly on the old metal surface.

This gift was not superficial sympathy, but the most genuine acknowledgment he had ever received. Liam didn’t see a lonely “crippled old fool”; he saw a “hero” who deserved a gift.

In that very moment, Arthur realized that his sacrifice was not in vain. It hadn’t just bought peace for millions of people out there, but also bought children like Liam, children who grew up surrounded by kindness and gratitude. And as long as one person, one single child, remembered and honored him, he was no longer alone.

Arthur smiled. His first genuine smile in years, a smile that smoothed the wrinkles around his eyes, making his face look decades younger.

He stood up, leaning on his crutch. The clop… clop… of the crutch still echoed, but this time, it was no longer heavy. It sounded like a proud rhythm, slow and steady.

He walked to the cupboard and took out a clean porcelain cup. He poured a small amount of his finest Whisky, something he had kept for a long time, afraid to drink it for fear of “wasting” it.

Arthur raised the cup, facing the window where Liam had disappeared.

“Merry Christmas, Santa Liam,” he whispered. “And thank you, kid. This year, my Christmas is much warmer.”

He took a sip of the liquor. The warm, sweet taste spread, not just in his throat, but also warming his entire heart. The old soldier’s Christmas Eve, finally, was no longer cold. And he knew that next year, he wouldn’t just be sitting and looking out the window anymore. He had a gift to prepare.