December 24th 1985 - White Hollow Orphanage

A loud knock on the front door woke Nan from her slumber. Glancing tiredly at the clock, the old woman grumbled and pushed herself to her feet. It was almost midnight, and the kitchen was filled with smells of honey and turkey, and the gravy that was slowly cooking on the stove. Christmas had never been a happy time for the young people of the orphanage, or the older ones in particular. They woke each year with sadness in their hearts, longing for the warmth of a family, of parents. Nan liked to make the day extra special for them. As her mother used to say, the tree must always have presents under it, and the bellies must always be full. She made her way along the dimly lit hallway, leaning against the wall to steady herself as she moved. She had worked at the orphanage since she was a child herself, and her mother had worked here before her. She would be at the orphanage three days a week, and as her mother worked sweeping the floors and washing the windows, Nan would play with the youngest of the children. But those days were long gone; she was now a woman of 74, and getting older every day.

She reached out a trembling hand and heaved open the heavy wooden door, letting in a hurricane of wet snow and ice cold wind which sent a chill through her spine. Lifting a hand to shade her emerald eyes from the snow, Nan peered into the night.
She could barely make out the shapes if the tress and the distant houses, the darkness surrounded them, making them almost invisible. There was no sign of whomever had knocked on the door, no footprints were left in the snow. Nan shook her head in annoyance. Kids often played this game, knocking on the door and then running as fast as they could. With a weary sigh, she pushed the door closed, but as she turned to head back to the kitchen a shrill cry pierced the deafening silence. Turning back to the door, Nan hurried to open it, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders as she took a few steps outside. At the foot of the steps lay a small bundle of cloth and blanket. If the blanket wasn't moving, Nan would surely have discarded it as a piece of rubbish, but there was no denying it. Lifting the bundle into her arms, she let out a gasp. In her arms was a baby, no more that a week old, with a St. Christopher around its neck and a photograph clasped tightly in its fragile hands. Nan moved as fast as her legs could carry her until she was in the warmth of the kitchen.
'Mary! Diana!' She cried out as she laid the child on the wooden table. She removed the moth-eaten, snow-covered blanket that currently covered the child and gently wrapped him in warm towels. The baby appeared to be fast asleep and peaceful, not a care in the world as Nan once again lifted him and held him close to her chest.