My name is Evan Miller, twenty-five years old, an IT engineer in Portland, Oregon. I grew up in a small wooden house next to a pine forest with my grandparents. My grandfather, George Miller, is over seventy years old, slightly hunched but still sharp-witted, humorous, and especially… mysterious.

I say “mysterious” because for the past ten years, every year, from the end of November until Christmas Eve, he has a strange habit: leaving the house at midnight, quietly like a thief, and returning at dawn, tired, clothes covered in snow.

Every time I ask, he just smiles:

“I’m old, can’t sleep, just go out to breathe some cold air.”

But I know that’s not true. In Portland, the cold in December is enough to freeze the eyelashes of passersby. No one “breathes air” at 2 a.m.

1. UNUSUAL SIGNS

That winter, when the snow fell earlier than usual, I decided to stay at my grandparents’ house longer to work remotely. I started to pay more attention: every night, around 11:50, he turned off the TV, said “go to bed”, but only ten minutes later, I heard the back door open slightly, then the sound of tires crunching on the snow.

One time, I looked out my bedroom window and saw him wearing a red woolen hat, a thick brown coat, and dragging a large canvas bag. The streetlights shone on his face, and I realized he was smiling – a gentle smile, but his eyes were a bit… worried.

The next morning, I asked:

“Where did you go last night?”

He sipped his coffee, calmly:

“Going fishing at night on the small lake on the edge of the forest.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“In this minus five degree cold?”

He shrugged and smiled:

“The fish are delicious this season.”

After saying that, he went out to the garden to shovel snow as if nothing had happened.

I began to suspect that he was hiding something. Maybe it was health problems, or worse – I thought about getting into debt, meeting someone, or joining some strange group.

Until one night in late November that year, I decided to follow.

2. THE MIDNIGHT SURVEY

I put on a warm coat and a woolen hat, waited until he left the house, then followed. He walked slowly, pulling a small, old sled with a red cloth sack on it. I walked about 20 meters away, avoiding leaving the same footprints as him.

The night was pitch black, with only the faint moonlight shining through the pine forest. The sound of falling snow sounded like someone was spreading the road. I shivered when I saw him turn into the town cemetery.

I almost held my breath. “No way…”

I bent down, following the row of tombstones. He stopped in front of a grave, lit a small candle, then took out a toy – a teddy bear – from his pocket and placed it on the snow-covered tombstone. I looked closely, and the faint inscription appeared:

“Emma Davis (2014–2019). The little dream is forever green.”

I was stunned. Emma Davis… I remember this little girl – the granddaughter of an old neighbor who died of heart disease a few years ago.

He sat down, mumbled something, then stood up and left the cemetery. I followed, my heart pounding.

Then he came to a small street in the suburbs, where there were rows of shabby houses, the lights were weak. He stopped in front of each house, quietly placed a small gift – wrapped in red paper, tied with a bow – in front of the door, and continued walking.

At that moment, I thought I was dreaming: he was handing out gifts.

At the third house, I couldn’t bear it anymore and stepped out of my hiding place.

“Grandpa!”

He jumped, turning around. The streetlights illuminated his face – and I could see he was wearing a Santa suit.

“Evan?! What the hell are you doing here?”

“I have to ask you that! Are you delivering presents? In the middle of the night? To whom?”

He sighed, looked around, and pulled me into a corner.

“I promise not to tell anyone. This is the Real Santas Club.”

3. THE REAL SANTA CLUB

It turned out that fifteen years ago, after retiring, he joined a group of senior citizens in the area – former doctors, drivers, teachers, mechanics… They called themselves The Real Santas Club.

Every year, from the end of November until Christmas, the group would pool their money, buy toys, clothes, food, and then go out at night to deliver gifts to poor children or children who had lost their parents.

None of the children knew who they were. They left no names, no photos, just the words:

“To you, from a Santa Claus who believes in good things.”

I was stunned.

“So… you’ve been doing this all these years?”

He nodded, his eyes sparkling in the middle of the night.

“You know, many years ago, when I was a police officer, I met children who had to spend Christmas in a shelter, with no one to give them presents. One of them told me: ‘If Santa Claus was real, he probably wouldn’t have found me.’ From then on, I wanted to prove that Santa Claus was real, as long as we believed and acted.”

 

I choked up: “But why didn’t you tell her or your family?”

He laughed, his white beard shaking slightly: “If the neighbors knew, she would make him sleep in the house all night, saying he was old and still playing tricks. Doing good deeds also needs a little… secret.”

We went together all night, delivering all the gifts. He knew every house, every child in the neighborhood, remembering clearly what they liked and needed. There was a deaf boy, he gave him a hearing aid. There was an orphan girl, he gave her a teddy bear and a music box.

On the way back, I asked:

“Does anyone else know about this?”

He chuckled:

“Just some of my friends in the association. But this year there are many old and weak people, so I don’t want to miss out.”

I held his hand and said:

“From now on, I will go with you.”

4. A NIGHT NOT LIKE ANY OTHER

A week later, on Christmas Eve, he told me to get ready: “Tonight is the last night, it’s special.”

We loaded the presents into the old van and headed out to the suburbs. The snow was falling heavily, the road was slippery, and the wind was bitter. He sang “Silent Night” softly as he drove.

When we got there, I realized our destination was a children’s refugee camp run by the local church. There, dozens of refugee children from Ukraine, Syria, and South America were living in temporary housing, waiting to be adopted.

He stopped the car, opened the trunk, pulled out a full Santa outfit – hat, beard, red shirt, white gloves – and said:

“Son, give me a hand. I’m tired, so be my ‘elf assistant.’”

I laughed and put on the green shirt he gave me. When we walked in, the children cheered. The camp manager, a woman of Mexican descent, was so moved that she almost cried.

“Children, Santa Claus is here!”

He handed out presents and talked to each child. A little boy grabbed his hand and asked:

“Grandpa, how did you get here? Reindeer?”

He smiled:

“No, I came by… will.”

The whole room burst into laughter.

But the joy did not last long before an accident occurred: outside, a small avalanche blocked the main road to the city. The electricity was cut off, and the wind was howling. The manager worried: “We might be stuck all night.”

He turned to me, his eyes calm:

“Then Santa Claus will stay with you one more night.”

5. THE SNOWFALL AND THE PROMISE

That night, we sang songs with the children, lit a fireplace, and told stories. He told them that a boy had written a letter to Santa Claus without an address, but the gift still arrived. The children were surprised and asked how he knew the way. He smiled:

“Because Santa Claus doesn’t need an address. He just needs a heart that can make a wish.”

I looked at him, noticed his hands were shaking with fatigue, but he kept telling the story until the last child fell asleep.

The next morning, the snow had melted a little, we left the camp. As the car drove through the woods, he suddenly became silent, then softly said:

“Evan, this year is probably the last time I get to wear this suit.”

I was startled: “What are you talking about?”

“My body is old, my bones and joints can’t stand the cold anymore. But I’m happy, because now I have a successor.”

I looked at him, understanding. He was talking about me.

6. ONE YEAR LATER

The following Christmas, he died. Not suddenly, just passed away in his sleep, peacefully like someone who had completed his mission.

In his will, he left me a red cloth bag and a Santa suit with a handwritten note:

“Evan, I did not leave you money, but I left you a job. Continue, even if only for one night a year, to make someone believe that good things still exist. Don’t let the ‘Real Santas’ disappear.”

I cried like a child.

That year, I continued the tradition. I drove alone to deliver the presents. And when I stopped in front of little Emma’s old house – now with a new baby – I left the package and a card that read:

“To you, from a Santa who believes in good things.”

Suddenly, a soft voice called from behind:

“Uncle… is that really Santa?”

A boy about eight years old poked his head out from the door. I laughed:

“Maybe, maybe not. But I believe you are real.”

The boy nodded, his eyes shining. I turned away, pulling the heavy bag, and in the cold wind, I heard my grandfather’s voice echo in my head:

“Let’s go, Evan. There are many children waiting for Santa Claus.”

7. CONCLUSION

Now, every late November, I wear my old red shirt, fake beard, and pull the gift bag through the snow. The same road, the same rustling sound of the wheels, the same smile in the dark night.

Someone once asked me why I do that, and I just replied:

“Because there are gifts that cannot be bought – faith and kindness.”

I still keep in my wallet a picture of my grandfather, with the faded ballpoint pen writing below:

“A Santa Claus never gets old.”

And I know, somewhere up in the white clouds, he still smiles watching me pull the red gift bag, continuing my journey as a believer in good things.