The house was quiet and dark, the sun hadn't yet started to warm the eastern sky. The lights had been switch on so the Christmas tree glowed, shimmering reflections off the gilded wrapping beneath, untouched and unexplored by little hands.
The house sang with memories of earlier days, the whispering and creaking of young feet approaching the area tentatively, almost expecting to see the big elf himself, hoping not to, and wanting it at the same time. It would be four or five am, the children realizing even in their excitement that it was too early to ask to be up. So they were quiet, at least as quiet as thrilled could be.
The house remembered. It smelled of Christmas with pine and sweets and reflections of the neighbour's coloured lights peeked in the windows. It was warm and safe and full of love and good. Mostly, it was good. Pre-dawn Christmas morning was a special time even when the now-larger kids slept, as it knew that on this day, memories were etched and impressions that last a lifetime are forged. The house embraced the moment and was magical in that darkness. That pre-dawn time and place where all Christmas past lived to be visited once a year, awaiting this years merriment.
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