A Gift from a Stranger The message popped up in the company group chat, floating over spreadsheets and urgent emails like a bright bauble in a drawer of paperwork: “Colleagues, we’re launching Secret Santa! Anonymous gift exchange at the office party. Budget up to £20. Link to the form below.” Andrew re-read the text, glancing automatically at the corner of his screen where the clock ticked. Ten working days until year-end, two weeks until quarter close, three days until the mortgage payment. His whole life had been measured in milestones like this for years. The chat quickly filled with reactions—a GIF of a reindeer, someone typing “Again?”, someone asking about the budget. HR manager Katie promptly followed up: “It’s optional to join, but highly encouraged—we’re building Christmas spirit!” Andrew finished his cold coffee and clicked the link. The form asked for his name, department, and agreement to data processing. At the bottom blinked the “Join” button. He hesitated, picturing how another pointless candle or mug would end up on his already cluttered desk. Then he imagined his name left blank in the participant list. He pressed “Join”. “Did you sign up for the lottery too?” his neighbour Simon asked, poking his head into Andrew’s cubicle. “Hope I get someone with a sense of humour. I’ve already planned my gift: a time-management book for the boss.” “It’s supposed to be anonymous,” Andrew reminded him. “That just makes it more fun. Just imagine—he opens it and sees…” Simon pulled a long face and burst out laughing. Andrew smiled politely and turned back to his report. The numbers blurred together in a grey stream. Somewhere nearby, people debated which holiday gift sets to buy for partners—splurge on expensive chocolate, or save. Out by the smokers’ shelter, talk was about bonuses: Would there be one, would it get cut, would it be paid out “in kind”—in gift baskets. All of it flickered around him like a constant Christmas backdrop: the company tree in the lobby, plastic baubles, impersonal greeting cards—”Dear partners! Season’s greetings…” For Andrew, there were two main goals this year: earn the bonus for meeting his targets, and not snap at his son for bad grades. Both seemed equally hard. That evening, an email arrived: “Your Secret Santa recipient.” He opened it on his phone in the tube, squeezed between winter coats and backpacks. “Hello Andrew! Your recipient: Andrew Collins, Analytics Dept.” He read it again—and again. The tube rattled, someone bumped his shoulder. Already the chat was buzzing with screenshots: “Is this a bug?” “I got myself too.” “Guys, this is a new level of self-awareness.” Katie replied quickly: “Colleagues, yes, there was a glitch. We don’t have time to fix it, IT says it’s tied to user IDs. Let’s treat this as an experiment. Still bring a gift, just pretend you don’t know! Let’s keep the intrigue and mood.” “What kind of intrigue if it’s me?” someone wrote. “Imagine it’s a stranger who knows you very well,” Katie answered, adding a Christmas tree emoji. Andrew closed the chat and put his phone away. In the carriage, someone on speakerphone was loudly recapping how their “year-end close is going.” Andrew stared into his own reflection in the dark window. Forty-one. Still had most of his hair, but there were grey streaks at the temples. His face was tired, not old. High street blazer, watch bought on credit, phone meant to match his boss’s. A present to myself, as if from a stranger, he thought. And what could such a stranger possibly give me? He didn’t have an answer. By the next day, the smoking shelter conversation was all about the mix-up. “I think they should cancel the whole thing,” said Paul the solicitor, flicking ash. “Breaks the concept. Secret Santa’s not supposed to be un-secret.” “I like it,” argued Anna from Marketing. “You can finally buy yourself something decent. Not another reindeer scarf.” “But you buy yourself everything anyway,” someone pointed out. “Not everything. Some things feel too extravagant,” Anna smiled. “That’s what’s interesting.” Andrew listened in silence. His mind circled the usual options: headphones, power bank, new mouse. He could buy any of it, any day after work. None felt like a gift—just one more accessory for the desk. “What are you giving yourself?” Simon asked him at the lift. “I don’t know,” Andrew admitted. “Come on! I’d have gone for a PlayStation, but the budget’s not enough.” Simon grinned. “I’ll settle for a craft beer set and label it ‘from Santa’.” And me? Andrew thought on the way back to his desk. What would I actually want, if someone really saw me—not as a colleague, payer of the mortgage, father who’s always told he doesn’t spend enough time with his son, but as… what? As a person? He realised he didn’t even have the word. That evening, the shopping centre was glowing—music pumped, lights twinkled. Stores promised “the perfect gift”, “for him”, “for successful men”: on every other poster, a confident man in a smart coat—no eye bags, no credit card debt. He stopped at the electronics shop: the best-selling wireless headphones on display. An assistant was talking up one model over another. Headphones: practical. For music, podcasts. Feels like self-care, Andrew reasoned. He picked up a box, considered the price—just within the £20 budget, if not the premium option. But it’s just me buying myself something. What’s the point? He bought himself all the things “a man my age and status is supposed to have” anyway—phone, watch, boots, jacket not from a discount rail. Is that a gift? He put the box back and walked out. The bookshop was warmer. The entrance was stacked with motivational tomes: “Be Your Best Self”, “Getting Things Done”, “Happiness by Design”. He flicked through one, saw the usual talk of “comfort zones” and “productivity”, and felt even more tired. In the back: fiction shelves. He ran his finger over book spines, picking out names he used to read. In uni he’d devour a novel overnight, went to lectures with red eyes. Then the job started, then the mortgage, then his son—reading became another item on the “should do” list. Maybe a book? he thought. But which one? And would this hypothetical stranger buy me a book, when I never make the time to read it? He left the shop empty-handed, mind buzzing from adverts and Christmas playlists. At home, his wife asked: “What’s got you so glum?” “Oh, it’s fine,” he said, taking off his shoes. “Some game at work. Gifts and stuff.” “More candles and mugs?” she smirked. “This time, you have to give yourself a present. System crashed.” “That’s brilliant!” she said, putting pasta on the table. “Buy something you never feel you can justify.” “Like what?” “I don’t know. You know best.” He fell quiet. His son, at the table, thumbed through his textbook, pretending to study for a test. “Well?” his wife looked at him. “You always want something specific. New phone, watch, rucksack. You’re into your gadgets.” “I get those as I need them,” he said. “Then maybe not a thing?” she suggested. “A voucher—for a massage, weekend, or…” “I don’t need a voucher for a weekend,” he snapped. “I need a manager who doesn’t email on Sundays.” She smiled. “Well then, ask your Santa for that manager.” “That’s outside the budget,” he joked. That night, Andrew tossed and turned—images of shops and slogans, other people’s wishes: “career growth”, “new achievements”, “financial prosperity”. All important, but none felt real—like tinsel you pack away in January. What would I want, if nobody was judging? No colleagues, no wife, no kid, no bank? He still didn’t know. A week before the party, the office was buzzing louder. Gift bags appeared on desks—some hidden away, some brazenly on display. Chat lit up with talk of dress codes, menus, games. Katie posted that the programme included a host, DJ, and a “special Secret Santa moment”. Andrew still hadn’t bought anything. “What’s the hold-up?” asked Simon. “Soon there’ll be nothing left.” “I’m thinking,” Andrew said. “What’s to think about?” Simon shrugged. “Grab something practical. I ordered myself a grill kit—always wanted one, but never got round to it. Now I will.” At lunch, Andrew sat in the café downstairs. The queue snaked to the till—people talking about reports, kids, traffic. On the digital menu screen: “Treat Yourself—Holiday Gift Sets.” He pulled out his phone, opened an online shop. Searched: “gift for man 40 years old.” Immediate results: watches, wallets, gadgets, whisky sets, barbershop vouchers. All about what I should look like, he thought. Not how I feel. He closed the tab, checked his personal email. It was overloaded with messages: “We miss you on our website”, “Your exclusive discount awaits”, “Start the New Year with a new you.” Amid the spam: an email from an education portal he’d subscribed to ages ago. “New intake for photography course—sign up by Sunday.” Photography. He remembered the old SLR camera, bought ten years back—before the child, before the mortgage. Back then, he’d wander London taking photos of houses, people, shop windows. Eventually, the camera ended up in a cupboard. First, no time; later, no energy; finally, “it’s just a phase”. It’s a cliché, his inner critic sniped. Middle-aged bloke, remembers he used to like photography. Probably about to quit his job and become an artist. Pathetic. He shoved away his tray, feeling a sudden flush of embarrassment. I’m not quitting anything. I just… But he didn’t finish the thought. His phone buzzed—a message from his manager: “Need Q3 figures by tonight.” Andrew sighed and got up. That evening, he dug the camera bag out of the corridor cupboard. The camera was there—heavy, cold. He turned it on, battery dead. Found the charger in his desk. His wife raised an eyebrow: “You’re going to take pictures?” “Just checking if it still works,” he said. When the battery had enough juice, he stepped onto the balcony and snapped a few shots of the courtyard: cars, windows, snow, streetlamps. Nothing remarkable, but the moment he looked through the viewfinder, the noise in his head drifted—didn’t vanish, but faded back. He noticed himself breathing easier. Maybe that’s the gift? he thought. Not the camera, but permission to spend time on it. An hour a week—or two. Without feeling like it’s a waste. It felt both simple and scary. The voice in his head sneered: Oh sure, just buy yourself a photography course. Like that’ll change anything. But a quieter voice replied: Why not? You blow money on things you’ll forget in a year. At least this is something you actually liked once. He reopened the course email—a module on composition, understanding light, cityscapes. Evening classes, twice a week, online. The cost fit the Secret Santa budget, unless he took the premium option. A gift to myself from a stranger, he thought. A stranger who remembers what I used to enjoy, and doesn’t think it’s stupid. He clicked “Pay”. Now the formalities: present it as a gift from “Santa.” The game rules said the gift should be a physical item. He couldn’t just turn up and say, “I signed up for a course.” He’d need something to hold in his hands. He bought a plain, navy notebook and a simple envelope. Printed out the course confirmation and slipped it inside. On the first page he wrote: “For photos you haven’t taken yet.” His handwriting was shaky, but legible. He sat down to write a note—something honest, not like a motivational poster. After several crumpled drafts, he settled on: “To Andrew. Sometimes it’s good to remind yourself you’re more than reports and calls. Hope you get a little time to see the world, not just through spreadsheets. Use it if you can. Your Santa.” He read it through—his chest tightened, not from pride, but because the words felt both alien and dearly needed. “Santa” ended up more caring than he usually was to himself. He packed the confirmation in the envelope, put it in the notebook, wrapped it in brown paper and tied it with a thin red ribbon. The gift looked modest. No branding, no slogans. The party was in the banqueting suite on the office ground floor: white tablecloths, fairy lights, a DJ playing overdone hits. Colleagues filtered in—some in sparkly dresses, some in the same shirts as in meetings, minus name badges. Presents piled high at a dedicated table. Each had a sticker with the recipient’s name. Andrew set down his parcel, eyeing the pile: bright bags from chain stores, boxes with bows, oddly-shaped packages wrapped in foil. “Ready for reveal?” Katie smiled as she passed. “As much as possible,” Andrew replied. By mid-evening the host announced the “special moment.” Music dimmed, lights lowered. People were merry—some laughing too loud, some arguing at the bar. “Friends,” the host began, “this year our Secret Santa is extra secret. So secret that you’re each your own magician. But let’s pretend we don’t know, right?” The room chuckled. “One by one, collect your gift from the table and open it right here. Remember—the point isn’t what’s inside, but what you might discover about yourself.” Another one speaking in slogans, Andrew thought dryly. When his turn came, a strange anxiety tightened his throat. He picked his parcel marked “Andrew Collins” and returned to his seat. “Ooh, what’ve you got?” Simon leaned over. “Hope it’s not socks.” Andrew untied the ribbon, peeled off the paper. Inside—a notebook and envelope. His name on the envelope; his hands shook just a little. “Not a grill kit anyway,” Simon noted. Andrew opened the envelope—pulled out the paper. Around him, someone was cheering, “I got a spa voucher!” Someone showed off a board game. He glimpsed accountant Sophie hiding behind a yoga book; HR Katie laughing over a mug marked “Best Employee.” He read the note once, then again. The words he’d written himself felt, unexpectedly, like someone truly reaching out. You’re more than reports and calls. Something inside ached—shame at feeling seen in weakness, and relief that the “someone” didn’t judge. “So what is it?” Simon pressed. “A course,” Andrew swallowed. “Photography. And a notebook.” “Wow,” Simon whistled. “Someone went all out. Must be one of the creative lot. But we’re not supposed to investigate, right?” “Right,” Andrew said. “Ah well,” Simon already distracted by his grill set. “Next time you’ll be the official photographer. Handy that.” Andrew closed the notebook. The host was joking on stage, people danced. It was noisy, but inside he felt quieter. He glanced at his wife’s message on his phone: “How is it?” He replied, “Fine. The gifts are odd. I gave myself a course”—then erased that last part and wrote, “I’ll tell you later.” He walked home near midnight. The block was peaceful—above, a door banged. The flat was welcoming—warm kitchen light, scent of tangerines. His wife sat reading, son asleep. “So?” she asked. “What did you get?” He put the notebook and envelope on the table. “That’s it?” she asked. “There’s more inside,” he said, showing the envelope. She read the note and looked at him. “Did you write this to yourself?” she asked gently. “Yes,” he confessed. “And booked the course. Photography.” She nodded—didn’t joke, didn’t tease. “Good gift,” she said. “You did love it.” “That was ages ago,” he replied. “So? Old things aren’t dead things.” He shrugged, but inside, something shifted—as if a heavy piece of furniture had finally been budged. “We’ll see,” he said. On New Year’s morning, Andrew woke without an alarm. The sky was grey, the car park dusted with old snow. His head felt heavy, not aching. His wife and son were at her parents; he’d join them tomorrow. The flat was silent. He made coffee, sat down, opened the notebook. “For photos you haven’t taken yet” said the page. He opened his laptop, found the email with course access. The first module started in a week, but he played the intro now: the tutor’s voice spoke not about “self-improvement” or “growth”, but about noticing light and shadow. He listened, and realised he wasn’t checking work email. The phone lay in another room—he didn’t reach for it. Afterwards, he picked up the camera and went outdoors. The air was chilly but bearable. Others were throwing away post-holiday rubbish, someone walked their dog. An orphaned party popper lay on the playpark. He lifted the camera, framed the branches, wires, balconies—nothing special. But when he clicked the shutter, he felt he was doing something small, but important. Not for targets, not for KPIs, not for a presentation. Just for himself. He took more shots, uploaded them to his laptop. Some were clumsy; some boring. But one—where the flats opposite were reflected in a car window—caught his eye. He zoomed in on the details. In the reflection, his own silhouette with the camera showed faintly. A gift from a stranger, he thought. Who I turned out to be. And perhaps that’s ok. He closed the photo app and finished his lukewarm coffee. Ahead was the first working day—unfinished tasks, emails, meetings. And the course, starting next week. And a time slot he hoped to keep, just for himself. He took the notebook, dated a new page, wrote briefly: “Courtyard, morning, reflection in glass.” The line was modest, but something in it was his. He set down the pen, and realised—for the first time in ages—he was thinking about the future in terms other than bills and reports. There, in the future, was now a small space just for seeing and choosing what he wanted. It wasn’t much. But it was enough to breathe a little easier. He poured more coffee, opened the course calendar, and in the notes box wrote: “Don’t cancel for work.” He grinned, realising life would intervene. But now, at least, he had the right to try. And that, too, was a gift.