Christmas Eve started quietly: snow was lightly falling, the house smelled of gingerbread. Lena, ten years old, circled around the Christmas tree like a satellite, enjoying the lights. She was looking for the star she always hung at the very top. Today it had disappeared, although the box of ornaments was full. Grandma hummed a carol and the doorbell was silent. An empty spoon for the wanderer gleamed by the extra plate. Lena leaned over because something was sticking out from under the napkin. She pulled out a piece of paper, scraped in tiny, cursive writing like a needle. The paper read: "I will come when you find the light today". Her heart thumped faster; none of the household had written like that. Next to it, a trail of glitter stretched towards the ladder to the attic. Lena snatched the torch and climbed the steps, very carefully. The attic smelled of dust and dried apple from the old holidays. The wind ruffled the roof tiles and something rustled in the darkest corner. Lena squinted and saw an old box with a sign on it: Christmas 1997. Inside lay a paper star, silver-plated, with a small string hole. When she touched the star, her fingers burned slightly and the petal shone. The light was not strong, but pointed with a rope of brilliance towards the window. Something tapped on the glass three times, as if from outside. Before Lena could push back the slider, she heard bells above the roof and a short, soft thud. A red sleeve and a white cuff flashed between the snowflakes. She stopped breathing, gripped the star tighter, and the handle at the window twitched of its own accord.