The Enderman wrapped his skinny arms around himself and shivered. For days it had been like this; frigid and full of powerful gales. He tugged on the edges of the thin wool toque he wore. It was his only piece of protection against the unforgiving night, and the only piece of clothing in his clan. He never wore it in the End; society forbade him to, and he could have been be sorely punished if he were discovered to be violating laws that were millions of years old. Now, though; he was alone, with no sign of other life except for the hostile mobs patrolling the horizon and a group of creepers wandering around the trees. He walked forward ever so slightly, and snow crunched under his feet. The moonlight reflected off the layer of white covering everything, turning the night into a blustering sort of semi-fairyland. A snowflake fell with a feathery touch onto the knit wool of his hat. The scene could have been pleasant, if it were not for what he had been sent to this place to do.
He inched his way out of the dense forest cautiously, but there was no need; everyone in the small snow-covered settlement was indoors and oblivious to the Enderman outside in the storm. Even so, he tried to make as little sound as possible. You couldn't take any chances.
As he was walking down a street, he noticed a small sign, nailed to a post. It was barely visible underneath the sparkling blanket of snow. "Beacon Road," it read. The Enderman looked into one of the frosted-over windows and could just make out a tall, strong-built man, a kind-looking, beautiful woman, and a small light-haired child dressed in a baggy shirt and an oversized pair of overalls. They were handing each other small boxes wrapped in colourful paper and tied with big bows. When they were opened, they revealed all manner of wonderful gifts. As he gazed wistfully into the glass-paned window, a small tear formed on the edge of his huge purple eye as he looked upon the happy family. One more thing he would never get to have.
He looked at the clock in the warm little house and came out of his daze with a start. It was quite late, and he knew that coming back without anything would get him nothing but pain and humiliation. He sighed and turned his back to the soft glow of the window. Near him was a small meadow, frosted over and blanketed with a thick layer of snow. He shivered and clumped over to the field, wet packing snow sticking to his feet.
He reached through the snow, wincing as it soaked his palms. He managed to work a chunk of frozen dirt loose from the ground, with some snow still on top. He wrapped his arms around it and closed his eyes. He concentrated hard on the place he had to go. Back home, to the End. A peculiar tingling feeling spread up his legs, to his stomach and his head. Purple particles began to swirl around him. By the time the feeling reached to the top of his head, where his toque was, there was no sign he had been there but the imprints of his thin feet, which were slowly filling with snow, soon to be gone without a trace.