I watch a little 5-year-old stumble and play in the snow. My snow. I see, out of the corner of my eye, the little boy's dad watching him.

"Jamie, do you know how to make snow angels?"

"No, Dad. What're those?" The little boy, Jamie, says.

"Well, you lie on your back, then you wave your arms and legs, like this…"

After his father's demonstration, little Jamie tries to copy it. It's a bit crude, but good enough. I fly down, and after he gets up, I gently tap the snow angel with my staff. A flurry of shining white snow that only spirits can see swirled up in a small tornado. Then, it begins to take form.

A beautiful white woman in a dress with large wings was floating in front of me. A snow angel.

"Thank you." And then she flies off to North's workshop.

I sigh. It's a part of my job to do this. To bad none of them can stay. But I can't just leave all that wonder and joy trapped in my snow, can I? I mean, it's North's he doesn't even know about the angels. He thinks the believers give him it.

Actually, he's kind of right. A small part of his current power. But when I came along, just under 300 years ago, he suddenly got A LOT more. If I wasn't there to release the snow angels, then he'd still have to climb down every chimney himself. And he'd have to feed his reindeer every hour.

Jamie and his father smile at their work. The dad's snow angel is perfect, but it doesn't have a child's wonder in it. Too bad.

They eventually go inside. Huuuuuh… I touch the window, frosting it over in beautiful patterns for Christmas Eve.

Nobody ever notices me.