Dear Santa.
My name is Ryan, and I am writing for my friend Marcus. He has been sick for a long time. He does not ask for presentsbecause he says Christmas is for kids who feel good. I think he is wrong.
Marcus looked at me.
Marcus wants a dragon. Not a real one because those are not real, but a pretend one that can protect him at night when the machines beep and he gets scared. He also wants to see stars because our room at the hospital has a bad view, and he misses the sky.
I cleared my throat and continued.
I do not want any presents this year. I just want my friend to feel magic. Real magic, like in the stories. So he knows someone is listening. So he knows he matters. Please Santa. If you are real, please come. Please show him he matters.
Love, Ryan.
P.S. I will leave extra cookies.
Silence. The monitors beeped. The stars turned overhead.
Marcus turned to Ryan. "You wrote that?"
Ryan nodded, suddenly shy. "You matter. I wanted Santa to know."
Marcus pulled him into a fierce hug—careful of tubes and wires. The boys held each other beneath the stars, with the dragon's heart pulsing between them.
"Thank you," Marcus whispered.
I rested my hand briefly on his head. "Thank you, Marcus. For believing. For being brave. For letting us be here tonight."
His eyes drifted closed.
Peaceful, not exhausted.
We left Marcus sleeping, and Ryan curled beside him. Charice would keep an eye on both boys during her shift.
"There are eleven other children in the ward tonight," she said quietly as we stepped into the corridor. "Most are sleeping, but a few—" She hesitated. "A few could use a visit. If you're willing."
"We're willing," I said.
The ward operated on a different frequency late at night—dimmed lights and hushed voices. Also, a nurse humming "Silent Night" as she checked vitals. A parent read "The Night Before Christmas" in a soft voice behind a half-closed door.
Room by room, we worked through the crates. A girl named Destiny clutched a threadbare rabbit—Ben gave her a carved horse, and the mark glowed rose-gold as her shoulders unknotted. Twin boys recovering from an accident got matched dogs from the same piece of walnut, and the marks pulsed in tandem when the boys made them touch noses.
In another room, a teenager named Sofia pretended not to care. Arms crossed, eyes on the ceiling, the studied indifference of someone who'd been in hospitals long enough to stop believing in anything. Ben set a carved owl on her bedside table without a word. We were halfway to the door when I heard her whisper, "It's warm."
Somewhere around the sixth room, I stopped performing entirely.
No Santa voice. No theatrical warmth. I sat with each child, asked questions, listened, and offered something made with care. The suit didn't matter. The beard didn't matter.
By the time we reached the last room, Charice had stopped trying to hide her tears.
"Every single toy," she said quietly. "They all feel like—" She shook her head, unable to finish.
Ben was studying his hands—the calluses, the small scars. When he looked up, his expression was unguarded in a way I'd rarely seen.
"I wasn't sure," he said. "Whether I could really do what Johan did. Whether the marks would work the same." He flexed his fingers. "Now I know."
We said goodnight to Charice at the nurses' station and headed for the elevator.
On the way down, I smiled at Ben. "Marcus saw Santa. Ryan got his miracle. And I didn't combust on stage, which felt touch-and-go for a minute."
