Days Before Christmas, page 6
“You remind me of our grandson,” the woman said, touching his arm gently.
Jason smiled, unsure what to say.
As evening deepened, Jason passed the tree lot again. Only a handful of trees remained now, small and uneven. He counted them without meaning to.
Soon.
At home, his mother noticed his careful movements.
“You’re hurt,” she said.
“I’m okay,” Jason replied.
She didn’t argue but she watched him more closely.
In his room, Jason opened the tin and added the day’s earnings. He counted again, slower this time.
It was close.
So close it frightened him.
Jason lay down, his side throbbing softly. Tomorrow would decide everything.
And December, relentless and silent, waited for him to make it count.
Chapter 23
December 23, 1990
Jason woke before the alarm in his head could ring.
Pain greeted him first dull, persistent, settled deep in his side like it had decided to stay. He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house breathe around him. His sister murmured in her sleep. Somewhere, a pipe knocked softly.
Two days left.
Jason sat up slowly, waiting for the room to stop spinning. When it did, he dressed with care, pulling his jacket on one arm at a time, moving like someone much older than ten.
Outside, London felt strained.
The streets were crowded, but the cheer from earlier days had thinned. People moved with purpose now, eyes fixed forward, voices sharp with impatience. Shops were packed, queues spilling onto pavements. Christmas was no longer gentle.
It was urgent.
Jason headed toward the station, where last-minute travellers rushed with suitcases and wrapped boxes. He positioned himself near the steps and waited.
“Can you carry this?” a woman asked, breathless, pointing to a heavy case.
Jason nodded.
The suitcase dragged at his sore side, but he adjusted, shifting the weight carefully. He carried it down the steps and onto the platform, teeth clenched, breath shallow.
“Thank you,” the woman said, pressing money into his hand. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Jason managed a small nod before stepping away.
By late morning, his body protested more loudly. He chose smaller jobs holding doors, fetching parcels from counters, returning trolleys to their bays. The coins added up slowly, painfully.
Near midday, hunger hit him hard. He ignored it.
Outside a charity shop, volunteers struggled to move boxes of donated toys inside before the weather turned. Jason took one box, then another, working steadily, ignoring the ache in his side. A woman noticed his careful movements.
“You should sit,” she said.
“I’m fine,” Jason replied automatically.
She didn’t argue. She just pressed extra money into his palm when he finished and a small chocolate wrapped in red foil.
Jason stared at it for a moment before slipping it into his pocket.
Snow began again in the afternoon, heavy and wet. Jason worked through it anyway, clearing slush from doorways, guiding shoppers across slick pavement. Once, his leg slipped and he went down hard on one knee.
He stayed there for a second too long.
A man reached out instinctively. “You all right, son?”
Jason nodded, pushing himself up quickly. “Yes.”
His knee throbbed with every step after that.
As dusk fell, Jason stood across the street from the tree lot and watched a man load the last tall tree onto a car roof. Only a few small ones remained now, thin and uneven, branches sparse.
Jason swallowed.
At home, his mother was folding laundry. She looked up sharply when she saw him limp.
“That’s enough,” she said. “Jason.”
“I just need tomorrow,” he replied quietly.
She stared at him for a long moment, then turned away, wiping her eyes with the corner of a sheet.
In his room, Jason opened the tin and poured the contents onto the bed. Coins rolled softly across the blanket. Notes lay flat and tired.
He counted once.
Then again.
His hands shook.
It was enough for the tree. For a few gifts. For food to make the day feel different.
Jason gathered the money back into the tin carefully, as if it might vanish if he moved too fast.
He lay down slowly, every part of him aching now. Outside, Christmas lights flickered in the distance, blurred through the window.
Tomorrow was December 24.
The last day before Christmas.
And Jason Carter, ten years old, tired and determined, had one final chance to finish what he had started.
Chapter 24
December 24, 1990
Jason woke before dawn.
Not because of pain this time though it was there, humming quietly through his side and knee but because his mind refused to rest. The room was dark and still, the world holding its breath. For a moment, he lay there listening to his own heartbeat, steady and fast.
Today was the last day.
He sat up carefully, reached beneath the bed, and pulled out the tin. He didn’t open it. He didn’t need to. He already knew what was inside. He set it back gently and stood, moving slowly so the floor wouldn’t creak.
Outside, London was quieter than it had been all month.
Christmas Eve had softened the city. Shops would close early. Streets would empty sooner. Whatever he needed to finish he had to do it now.
The cold bit hard as Jason stepped out, breath blooming white in the air. The sky was pale and fragile, like thin paper stretched too tight. He headed straight for the market district, walking faster than his body wanted to allow.
Near the fishmongers, the smell was sharp and clean. Vendors were packing up early, voices calmer than usual. Jason offered help wherever he could lifting crates, tying bundles, sweeping discarded ice and leaves from the pavement.
Coins passed into his hands quickly today. People were generous on Christmas Eve, softer around the edges.
By midmorning, Jason’s pockets were heavier but time was lighter.
He turned toward the charity shops next. Volunteers rushed to finish last-minute collections. Jason carried boxes of donated clothes, sorted toys by size, taped labels with careful fingers. One woman noticed the way he winced when he bent.
“Have you been working all month?” she asked gently.
Jason nodded.
She didn’t say anything else. She just paid him, then pressed a small paper bag into his hands. Inside was a knitted hat, red and green, slightly crooked.
“Merry Christmas,” she said.
Jason swallowed hard. “Thank you.”
Near noon, snow began to fall again slow, deliberate flakes that seemed to belong to the day. Jason stood under an awning and watched it for a moment, then turned toward the place he had been avoiding.
The tree lot.
Only a few trees remained, small and uneven, their branches thin but green. Jason walked slowly along the row, fingers brushing needles, the sharp scent of pine rising around him.
A man stepped out from behind the truck. “Looking for a tree, lad?”
Jason nodded and opened the tin for the first time that day.
The man counted carefully, then smiled. “That one’s yours.”
Jason chose the fullest one he could afford not tall, not perfect, but real. The man helped him tie it with twine.
Jason lifted it onto his shoulder.
It was heavier than he expected.
The walk home felt longer than any other day. The tree scratched his cheek, needles catching in his jacket. His arms trembled. His breath burned. More than once, he had to stop and rest the base against the pavement.
People stared.
One woman smiled. A man stepped aside to give him room. A child pointed and whispered.
Jason kept walking.
By the time he reached home, his arms were shaking uncontrollably. He leaned the tree against the wall outside and stood there for a moment, breathing hard, letting the pain crest and settle.
Then he went back out.
There were still gifts to buy.
Jason spent the last of his money carefully small things, chosen with thought. A puzzle for his sister. Warm socks for his mother. A scarf for his father. Simple food to make the table feel full.
When he finally returned home for good, night had fallen.
The house was quiet.
Jason dragged the tree inside inch by inch, setting it upright in a bucket. He arranged the gifts beneath it, wrapping paper mismatched but neat. He found a string of old lights in a cupboard and tested them twice before hanging them carefully.
When everything was done, he stepped back.
For the first time all month, Jason stood still.
Footsteps sounded behind him.
His mother gasped softly. His sister covered her mouth. His father stared, speechless.
“Jason...” his mother whispered.
Jason shrugged, suddenly shy. “It’s Christmas.”
No one spoke for a moment.
Then his sister ran forward, laughing and crying at the same time. His mother hugged him so tightly it hurt. His father rested a hand on his shoulder, firm and proud.
That night December 25, just past midnight they sat together under the glow of the tree, sharing simple food, opening small gifts, laughing softly so the magic wouldn’t break.
Jason sat back against the sofa, exhaustion finally claiming him.
As the lights blurred and the room faded, one last thought crossed his mind:
It was worth it.
And in the quiet warmth of that Christmas night, Jason Carter closed his eyes having given his family something no money alone could buy.
Chapter 25
December 25, 1990
Jason woke to warmth.
Not the kind that came from blankets or heaters, but the kind that lived in sound the soft clink of cups, the murmur of voices kept low, the faint crackle of something cooking in the kitchen. For a moment, he forgot where he was. Then the scent of pine reached him, clean and sharp.
He opened his eyes.
The Christmas tree stood by the window, leaning slightly, branches uneven, lights glowing softly even in the pale morning light. Gifts lay open beneath it, paper folded carefully instead of torn, as if everyone had wanted to save the moment as long as possible.
Jason sat up slowly. His body protested his side still sore, his knee stiff but the pain felt distant now, unimportant.
He padded into the living room.
His sister sat cross-legged on the floor, already working on her puzzle, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration. She looked up and grinned.
“It’s still here,” she whispered, as if afraid the tree might disappear.
Jason smiled.
His mother stood at the small table, pouring tea into mismatched cups. She looked tired, but lighter somehow, like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. When she saw Jason, her eyes softened.
“Good morning,” she said. “Sit. You don’t have to do anything today.”
Jason hesitated, then nodded.
His father handed him a cup, squeezing his shoulder gently before sitting down. No words were needed. Everything that mattered had already been said the night before in glances, in silence, in the way they had all stayed awake longer than usual just to be together.
They ate slowly. Simple food. Ordinary food.
But it tasted like celebration.
Outside, London moved quietly. Snow rested on rooftops. Bells rang somewhere far away. The world seemed to have paused, just for them.
Jason leaned back against the sofa and watched his family really watched them. The way his sister laughed when a puzzle piece finally fit. The way his mother hummed under her breath. The way his father stared at the tree as if committing it to memory.
Jason didn’t think about the aches anymore.
He thought about the days before Christmas the cold mornings, the heavy crates, the coins counted again and again. He thought about how close he had come to giving up.
And then he looked at the room.
At the light.
At the smiles.
He understood something then, quietly and completely:
Christmas wasn’t the tree. It wasn’t the gifts. It wasn’t the money.
It was the choice to keep going.
Jason Carter, ten years old, closed his eyes for just a moment longer and let the day begin.
The End
About the Author
Mark Hans is a writer from the small village of Jattanwali, India. He wrote Days Before Christmas in December 2025 after realizing that many people do not have enough money to celebrate Christmas, often called the happiest day of the year. This realization inspired him to write a story about hard work, hope, and family. Days Before Christmas is his first short novel, written with the belief that happiness can be created through effort, love, and determination.
‘‘Every person is capable of bringing happiness into their own life not by waiting for miracles, but by choosing effort, kindness, and courage, even when the world feels unfair ”
-Mark Hans
Mark Hans, Days Before Christmas
