It was a Winterfair’s Eve. Half past three a.m.
Ezar knew full well that he was asleep.
Because, the presence of an unauthorized person in his bedroom, right in his favorite armchair, together with dead silence from the Security and lack of aggressive deeds on his part,
could be just that – a dream.
Last time he contrived to take a flapping curtain for a real, live monster, he was six years old, and these days it was a bit too early for him to regress to childhood.
“So what?” The stranger growled petulantly, “Shall we continue playing mute? Among other things, I'm in a hurry.”
Moonlight bleached out his half-length fur coat, flooded his red hat with its green trim, streamed down the bushy beard,
that spread on his wide chest like a heap of papers over the baise of a conference desk.
“It’s quite unlikely I’ve been a good boy this year.” Ezar scoffed, squinting at the well-filled sack at the feet of Father Frost. It was a good dream he was having. Plain and simple.
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