A Stranger’s Gift A message popped up in the company group chat, floating to the top of a sea of spreadsheets and urgent emails like a shiny bauble in a box of paperwork: “Colleagues, we’re launching Secret Santa! Anonymous gift exchange at the office party. Budget up to £20. Link to the sign-up form below.” Artem re-read the message and glanced at the corner of his screen, where the clock ticked away: ten working days till year-end, two weeks until the quarter closed, three days until his next mortgage payment. Lately, his life measured out in deadlines. The reactions in the chat started flying: someone sent a reindeer gif, someone typed “Again?”, someone else checked the budget. HR manager Kate quickly added, “Participation is optional, but very welcome. Let’s create some Christmas spirit!” Artem finished his cold coffee and clicked the link. The form asked for his name, department, data consent. The “Join” button flashed at the bottom. He hesitated, picturing another pointless candle or mug cluttering his already overflowing desk. Then he imagined his name standing alone in the participant list. He clicked. “So, you signed up for the lottery?” Sasha from next door poked his head into Artem’s cubicle. “Hope I get someone who gets British humour. Already have my gift idea: a time-management book for the boss.” “It’s supposed to be anonymous,” Artem reminded. “All the more fun. Just picture his face when he opens it…” Sasha made a shocked expression and burst out laughing. Artem smiled politely and turned back to his report. The numbers blurred into a grey stream. Someone nearby debated which chocolate boxes to buy for clients—splash out or save money? That morning, the smokers’ corner was all about the Christmas bonus: Would there be one? Would it be cut? Or just “in kind” in the form of more chocolate boxes? Everything flickered around him like endless tinsel: a wobbly company tree in the lobby, plastic baubles, generic cards reading, “Dear Partner, Wishing you…” This year, Artem had two goals: hit his bonus for meeting the annual plan and not lose his temper with his son about school grades. Both seemed equally tough. That evening an email arrived: “Your Secret Santa match.” He opened it on the Tube, squeezed between parkas and backpacks. “Hello, Artem! You’ve drawn: Artem Krylov, Analytics Department.” He stared at the line. Then again. The Tube jerked. Someone bumped his shoulder. The group chat pinged with screenshots: “Is this a glitch?” “I got myself too!” “This is next-level soul-searching.” Quickly, Kate replied: “Yes, colleagues, the system glitched. No time to fix it before the party, IT says it’s all tied to IDs. Just treat it as an experiment. Bring your gift, act innocent—let’s not lose the Christmas spirit!” “What’s mysterious about buying for yourself?” someone moaned. “Pretend it’s from a stranger who really gets you,” Kate replied with a Christmas tree emoji. Artem closed the chat and shoved his phone away. Someone on the carriage speaker loudly detailed how they were “closing out the year.” He looked at his reflection in the dark window. Forty-one. Still hanging on to his hair, though it was greying at the temples. Tired, but not old. High-street blazer, watch on credit, a phone chosen to match the manager’s. A gift from a stranger—to himself? And what would that stranger give him? No answer came. The next day the break room buzzed with debate. “I say cancel the lot!” declared lawyer Paul, flicking ash. “Ruins the point! Secret Santa can’t be not-secret.” “I love it,” argued Anya in marketing. “Now I can finally buy myself something I actually want. Not just another scarf with reindeer.” “You already buy yourself everything, don’t you?” “Not everything. There are always things you can’t justify spending on,” Anya grinned. “That’s the fun of it.” Artem listened silently, his mind ticking over: headphones, a power bank, a new mouse. He could just buy any of those anyway, walking home after work. None felt like a real gift—just more desk gear. “What will you give yourself?” Sasha asked as they waited for the lifts. “No idea,” Artem admitted. “Mate. I’d get a PlayStation if the budget allowed,” Sasha snorted. “Guess I’ll go with a craft beer set—‘from Santa’.” But what about me? Artem wondered as he made his way back. What would I want—if someone really saw me? Not as an employee, a bill-payer, a dad being told he isn’t home enough—but as who? As a person? He realised he couldn’t find the word. That evening, he wandered through a shopping centre, everywhere shimmering, music playing. Stores advertised “perfect gifts,” “for him,” “for successful men.” Posters showed model men in designer coats, confident eyes. None with bags under their eyes or balance transfers. He drifted into an electronics shop—wireless headphones on display, “Bestseller” stickers. The assistant explained the difference between models to a young guy in a puffer. Headphones: practical, he reasoned. Music, podcasts—could pretend he was taking care of himself. He turned a box over; the price fit the £20 cap, if he didn’t go top end. But it’s not a real present. I’m buying for myself, again, the things a “proper” man my age and level is supposed to have. Phone, watch, decent shoes, coats not from the sales rack. Is this really a gift? He put the box back. The bookshop felt cosier. At the entrance, piles of self-development books: “Be Your Best Self,” “How to Do It All,” “Happiness by Design.” He flicked through one, seeing familiar phrases about “leaving your comfort zone” and “productivity,” feeling suddenly tired. Deeper in, shelves of fiction. He ran a finger along the spines, names he once devoured. He used to read late into the night at uni and show up to lectures bleary-eyed. Then came the job, the mortgage, his son’s birth—and reading became yet another “should.” Maybe a book? But which? Would this imaginary stranger really give him a book, when he never found time to read? He left the bookshop empty-handed, head buzzing from ads and background music. At home, his wife asked, “You look glum.” “I’m fine,” he said, pulling off his shoes. “Just a game at work. Gifts.” “Candles and mugs again?” she smirked. “This time everyone’s buying for themselves. System crashed.” “That’s brilliant,” she laughed, plating up pasta. “Treat yourself to something you wouldn’t normally buy.” “Like?” “You tell me. You always want something.” “I buy those things anyway. When I need them.” “So maybe not a thing? A voucher for a massage, a weekend, a—?” “I don’t need a voucher for a day off. I need a boss who doesn’t text on Sundays.” She smiled. “Ask your Santa for that.” “Out of budget,” he joked. That night, he tossed and turned. Shopping scenes, slogans, generic “Wishing you prosperity” wishes flashed through his mind. All important, but all external—like the tinsel packed away in January. What would I want, if no one else was evaluating me? Not my team, not my wife or son, not my parents, or the bank? Still no answer. A week before the party, the office buzzed. Gift bags appeared on desks; some hidden, some displayed. Chat filled with talk of dress code, menu, contests. Kate posted about the evening’s programme: a host, DJ, “and a special Secret Santa moment.” Artem still had no gift. “Dawdling again?” Sasha asked. “Nothing good will be left soon.” “I’m thinking,” Artem said. “About what? Just buy yourself something handy. I finally ordered a barbecue set. Never got round to it before—now I will.” At lunch, he dropped into the downstairs café. Queue at the till, conversations about budgets, kids, traffic. On the screen above: “Treat Yourself! Holiday Hampers Available.” He sat by the window, checked his phone. Typed “gift for a 40-year-old man” into an online shop: watches, wallets, gadgets, whisky sets, vouchers. That’s all for how I’m supposed to look, he realised—not for how I feel. He shut the site and checked his personal email. Among random newsletters, one stood out—from a photography site he’d signed up for long ago. “New intake for the photography course—register by Sunday.” Photography. He remembered the old DSLR he’d bought before life became bills and baby and mortgage. Then, he used to walk round London on weekends, snapping photos of buildings, people, shopfronts. The camera ended up on a shelf, then life got busy, then it felt silly. Bit cliché, a voice said. Man in his forties “rediscovers” his old hobby; next comes quitting work to be an artist. Pathetic. He pushed his tray away, embarrassment tightening his chest. I’m not quitting anything. I just— His boss messaged: “Need Q3 figures by tonight.” Artem sighed and stood up. That evening, he dug the old camera from the cupboard. It was heavy, cold. He switched it on, but the battery was dead. Charger found, battery plugged in. “Going to take photos?” his wife asked, eyebrow raised. “Just checking it works,” he said. Charged, he stepped onto the balcony and snapped a few shots of the courtyard: cars, windows, snow, lamplight. Nothing special. But while looking through the viewfinder, the buzz in his head faded—not gone, but quieter. He breathed easier. Is that the gift? Not the camera, but permission to use it—an hour a week, or two. Without guilt. Scary, yet simple. His critical inner voice snorted: Sure, buy a photography course. Like that’ll change anything. But another, quieter voice said: Why not? You already spend money on things you’ll forget in a year. At least this is something you once loved. He reopened the course email: composition, light, street photography. Two evenings a week online. It fit the Secret Santa budget if he skipped the premium. A gift to myself from a stranger—a stranger who remembers what I used to love, and doesn’t think it’s silly. He clicked “Pay.” He’d need something physical, though—party rules. No strolling in and announcing “I’ve enrolled on a course.” There had to be a box. He bought a plain navy notebook and an envelope. Printed the course confirmation, tucked it inside. On the notebook’s first page, he wrote, “For the photos you’ll take next.” His writing was awkward but legible. He drafted a card. Not a motivational poster, but words someone who understood might say. After several tries, he wrote: “To Artem— Sometimes it helps to remember you’re more than reports and calls. Here’s some time to look at the world beyond spreadsheets. Hope you use it. Your Santa.” He re-read it. It pinched his chest—not from embarrassment, but because it felt both foreign and terribly needed. Santa turned out to be more thoughtful than he usually was with himself. He put the printout in the envelope, slipped it with the notebook, wrapped it in brown paper, tied with a thin red ribbon. Simple. No logos, no slogans. The Christmas do was in the downstairs function room: white tablecloths, fairy lights, DJ playing old hits. Some staff in sparkly dresses, some in the same shirts as always—just no work badges. Gifts were piled on a side table, a sticky label with every name. Artem added his. Garish branded bags, shiny boxes, odd shapes wrapped in foil. “Ready for the big self-reveal?” Kate winked as she passed. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” he replied. Mid-evening, the host announced the “special moment.” Music lowered, lights dimmed. People now half-tipsy, some laughing, others at the bar. “Ladies and gents,” the host grinned, “this year’s Secret Santa is so secret each of you ended up your own magical benefactor! But, of course, we’ll pretend we know nothing, right?” A ripple of laughter. “One by one, come up, find your name, unwrap your present here and now. Remember, what matters isn’t the gift, but what you learn about yourself.” Another one for the slogans, Artem thought wearily. When his turn came, his throat tensed oddly. He fetched his parcel, tagged “Artem Krylov,” and walked back to his chair. “What did you get?” Sasha leaned in. “Please, not socks.” Artem untied the ribbon, unwrapped the paper. Notebook, envelope inside labelled with his name. His hands trembled. “Definitely not my barbecue kit,” Sasha observed. Artem opened the envelope and the letter. Around him, people were whooping: “I got a spa voucher!”—someone flashed a board game box, lights reflected off wrappers. He glimpsed accounts’ Svetlana blinking rapidly over a yoga book, saw HR Kate cracking up at a mug reading “Best Employee.” He read his note. Then again. Words he’d written for himself now felt as if someone else truly saw him. You’re more than reports and calls. It ached. A childish embarrassment, as if someone had caught him off guard—and relief, that whoever it was, wasn’t judging. “Well?” Sasha pressed. “A course,” Artem said, swallowing. “Photography. And a notebook.” “Nice one,” Sasha whistled. “Someone went all-out. Must’ve been creative. Not supposed to find out, right?” “Nope.” “Alright.” Sasha was already eyeing his barbecue kit. “Means we get better photos at the next party, then.” Artem closed the notebook. The host was joking at the mic, some people dancing. It was noisy, but inside, it felt a little quieter. He checked his phone, a message from his wife lingering: “How’s it going?” He typed, “Fine. Gifts are a laugh. I got myself a course,”—paused, deleted—“Tell you later.” He got home close to midnight. The block was silent, a lone door banging somewhere up above. The flat glowed with kitchen light and the smell of clementines. His wife sat at the table with a book; his son already asleep. “So?” she asked. “What did you get?” He set the notebook and envelope on the table. “That’s it?” she raised an eyebrow. “There’s more inside,” he said, and opened the envelope. She read the note, looked at him softly. “You wrote that to yourself?” He nodded. “And I paid for the course. Photography.” She nodded, not teasing or joking. “Good present,” she said. “You used to really love that.” “That was ages ago.” “So what? Ages ago doesn’t mean it’s lost.” He shrugged, but something inside shifted—like moving a piece of furniture you’d long ignored. “We’ll see.” New Year’s Day, he woke up without an alarm. Outside, grey morning, the car park still snowy. Head heavy, but not pounding. Wife and son off at her mum’s, he’d join them the next day. The flat was oddly peaceful. He made himself coffee, sat down, and opened the notebook. Still on the first page: “For the photos you’ll take next.” Laptop open, found the course email. First live session in a week; intro videos already available. He clicked, heard the tutor’s calm voice—not on “self-improvement” or “productivity,” but how important it was to spot light and shadow. For once, he didn’t check his work email on the side. The phone was in another room; he didn’t want it. Afterwards, he picked up the camera and stepped outside. The winter air was cold, but not freezing. People carried out post-Christmas rubbish, someone walked a dog. A spent party popper on the playground. He raised the camera. Through the lens: branches, wires, balconies. Ordinary. But as he pressed the shutter, it felt—oddly—like something small but important. Not for a report, not for KPIs, not for slides. Just for himself. He took a few more shots, came back, uploaded them. Most were dull or pointless. But one—car window reflecting the flats opposite—caught his eye. He zoomed in: there, in the reflection, his own silhouette, camera in hands. A stranger’s gift, he thought. Which turned out to be from me. And somehow, that’s okay. He closed the laptop and finished his coffee. Ahead lay the first work day, new tasks, calls, emails. And the course, starting soon. And time he’d try to keep for himself. He picked up the notebook, wrote the date, and one line: “Morning, car park, reflection in glass.” Simple, but it was his. He realised, for the first time in ages, he was thinking about the future in more than just bills and reports. There was a tiny space for what he wanted. It wasn’t much. But it was enough to take a deeper breath. He poured another coffee and checked the course schedule. At the bottom, a notes field—he wrote: “Don’t cancel for work.” Smiled wryly, knowing life would get in the way. But now he had the right to try. And that, too, was a gift.

A Gift from a Stranger

The message lit up the office chat, standing out among spreadsheets and urgent emails like a bright bauble in a drawer of paperwork:

Colleagues, its time for Secret Santa! Anonymous gift exchange at the office do. Budget up to £25. Link to sign up below.

James read it through and glanced at the corner of his screen, where the clock ticked on. Ten working days left until the new year, two weeks until the quarterly deadlines, three days until the next mortgage payment. That was how hed measured time for years now.

Reactions were already flooding in. Someone posted a GIF of a prancing reindeer, someone else grumbled, Again? and another asked for clarification on the budget. The HR manager, Judith, quickly added, Participation encouraged, not required! Lets get into the Christmas spirit.

James finished his cold coffee and clicked the link. The form asked for his name, department, permission to process his data. At the bottom, a button flashed: Join in. He hesitated, already imagining another pointless candle or mug cluttering up his overflowing desk. Then pictured his name, the only one left out.

He pressed it.

Joined the Secret Santa circus, have you? Tom from the other department peeked into his cubicle. Hope I draw someone with a sense of humour. Got my present planned: Time Management for Bossesfor the manager.

Its anonymous, remember, James replied.

Makes it more fun! Imagine his face…Tom mimed a gobsmacked expression and laughed.

James smiled politely and turned back to his report. Numbers blurred together in a grey stream. Somewhere nearby, they argued about which hampers to send to partners, whether it was worth splashing out on posh chocs. In the smokers corner, that mornings topic had been bonuseswould they get them, would they be docked, perhaps replaced with festive boxes of biscuits.

All of it flickered around him like a never-ending Christmas backdrop: the office tree in reception, plastic baubles, faceless Dear partners, we wish you a Happy Christmas cards.

This year, James had two aims. First, hit his targets and earn that bonus. Second, not snap at his son over his grades. Both seemed equally hard.

That evening, an email popped up: Your Secret Santa Assignment. He opened it on the tube, packed in between winter coats and backpacks.

Hello, James! Your Secret Santa recipient: James Watkins, Analysis Department.

He stared. Then read it again.

The train jolted. Someone elbowed him. The chat had exploded with screenshots:

Is it just me, or…?
I got myself too.
This is the highest form of self-reflection!

Judith quickly messaged: Folks, yes, the system glitched. Theres no way to changeIT says its tied to IDs. Lets treat it as a little experiment. Bring the gifts, pretend nothing happened, and keep the festive mood!

What surprise is there if I know its me? someone wrote.

Imagine its a stranger who gets you just right, replied Judith with a Christmas tree emoji.

James pocketed his phone. Across the carriage, someone loudly described all theyd done to close out the year. He looked at his reflection in the black window. Forty-one. Still got his hair, but streaks of grey at his temples. Worn but not old. Department store jacket, watch bought on credit, phone just like his managers.

A gift to yourself, from a stranger, he mused. And what would this stranger give me?

He had no answer.

Next morning, that was all anyone talked about during the smoking break.

I say scrap the whole thing, argued Peter the solicitor, flicking ash. Its against the spirit. Secret Santa has to be, well, secret.

I like it, countered Alice from marketing. Finally, I can get myself something decentnot another scarf with reindeer on.

You buy everything you want already, someone said.

Not everything, she smiled. Some things Im too stingy for. Thats the point.

James listened in silence, ideas swirling: headphones, portable charger, a new mouse. All things he could buy himself any day. None of them felt like a present; more like just another office accessory.

Whatll you give yourself? Tom asked as they took the lift.

No idea, James admitted.

Come off it. Id buy myself a PlayStationif the limit allowed. Tom grinned. Settled for a craft beer box, labelled from Santa.

And what about me? wondered James, heading for his desk. What would I want, if someone actually saw menot just as an employee, not as a mortgage-payer, not just as a dad who gets reminded hes never home enoughbut as what? A person?

He realised, uncomfortably, he had no word for it.

That evening, he went to the shopping centre. Lights flashed, music blared, every shop window boasted Perfect Gifts for Him, Gifts for the Go-Getter. Each poster starred a bloke in a pricey overcoat, exuding confidence, no dark circles or debt.

He popped into the electronics shop. A stand of wireless headphones sported bestseller stickers. Nearby, a sales assistant explained the differences to a young man.

Headphones. Practical. Music, podcasts, a nod to self-care. Reasonable price, if he didnt get the fancy ones.

But its just buying myself another thing men of my age and job are supposed to own. Phone, watch, decent shoes, coat not from the budget bin. Is it really a present?

He put the box back and left.

The bookshop felt warmer. At the entrance, stacks of motivational reads: Be Your Best Self, How to Master Time, Happiness by Numbers. He flipped through one, lost interest at comfort zone and productivity.

At the back stood the fiction shelves. He traced the spines, finding familiar authors. Once, hed devoured novels through the night, stumbling to uni bleary-eyed. Then work, then the mortgage, then his son arrived, and reading became one more should do list item.

Maybe a book? But which? Would this imaginary stranger really buy me a book, knowing I never find time to read anymore?

He left empty-handed, the jangle of adverts and piped carols droning in his head.

At home, his wife asked, Why so glum?

Im fine, he replied, kicking off his shoes. Just some game at workChristmas presents and all.

Bet its more candles and mugs, she smirked.

This year, youre meant to buy for yourself. The system crashed.

Thats brilliant, she said, dishing up pasta. Get yourself something you always begrudge the money for.

Like what?

You know better than me.

He fell quiet. His son sat at the table, pretending to study.

Well? his wife pushed. Usually youve got your eye on something: new phone, watch, rucksack. You love your gadgets.

I buy that stuff anyway, as needed.

Then maybe not a thing? she offered. A vouchermassage, a day off, something youd never plan for

I dont need a voucher for a day off, he muttered. I need a boss who doesnt email on Sundays.

She smiled.

Ask your Santa for a new boss, then.

Thats outside the budget, he joked.

That night, he tossed and turned. Snippets floated up: shop windows, posters, everyone elses wishes: career growth, new successes, financial security. All important, but it all felt external, like tinsel binned in January.

What would I want if no one was judging? Not the colleagues, not the wife, not the kid, not the bank?

Still no answer.

A week before the Christmas do, the office buzzed louder. Gift bags appeared on deskssome hidden in drawers, others out on show. The chat buzzed with outfit ideas, menu debates, games. Judith posted: Well have a compere, a DJ, and a special Secret Santa moment!

James still hadnt bought anything.

You really cutting it fine? Tom teased. Soon therell be nothing left at all.

Still thinking.

Whats to think about? Tom shrugged. Pick something useful! I ordered a grill setalways fancied one, never got round to buying it. Now I have.

At lunch, James queued at the café downstairs, office chat swirling around him. Ads flashed above the bar: Treat yourself! Gift boxes for Christmas!

He sat by the window, phone in hand, and searched gift for man, 40. Pages crashed in: watches, wallets, gadgets, gin tasting sets, barbershop vouchers.

All about how Im supposed to look, he thought. Not how I actually feel.

He killed the window, checked his personal email instead. Promotions, Come back for a discount, Start New Year, New You.

Then a message from an online learning portal hed followed once: New Photography Coursesign up by the end of the week.

Photography.

He remembered the old DSLR bought years ago, before the kid, when the mortgage was a distant worry. Back then, hed wandered London snapping buildings, people, windows. The camera gathered dust in a cupboard nowfirst for lack of time, then energy, then because it felt daft.

How cliché, his inner critic said. Man in his forties rediscovers his passion for photography. Whats next, artists smock? Please.

He pushed aside his tray, an ache of embarrassment inside.

Im not about to change my life. I just

He never finished the thought. A text from his manager: Need Q3 numbers by close of play.

James sighed and stood up.

That night he dug the camera bag out from the hall cupboard. Heavy, cold. The battery was dead; a charger surfaced in a drawer.

His wife raised an eyebrow. Youre taking photos?

Just checking if it still works, he said.

When it had enough charge, he stepped onto the balcony and snapped a few shots: cars, windows, streetlights, a light dusting of snow. Nothing much. But when he looked through the viewfinder, the noise in his head faded. Not gone, but quieter.

He breathed easier.

Maybe this is the gift, he thought. Not the camera itself, but permission to use it. An hour a week. Or two. Without feeling ridiculous.

The idea was simpleand oddly frightening. His inner cynic sneered: Sure, take a photography course. Thatll fix your life.

But a quieter voice said: Why not? You spend enough on things youll forget about. Why not on something you actually enjoyed?

James opened the course email again. It offered a module on composition, lighting, cityscapes. Evening classes twice a week, online. The price fit the Secret Santa limitif he didnt go for the premium add-on.

A gift to myself, from a stranger, he thoughtone who remembers what I used to like and doesnt scoff at it.

He clicked Pay.

He needed something physical, to follow the Secret Santa rules. You couldnt show up at the do announcing, I bought myself a course. There had to be something for a box.

He went to WHSmiths and got a plain navy notebook and an envelope. At home, he printed the course confirmation and folded it carefully. On the first page of the notebook he wrote, For the photos you havent yet taken. His handwriting was messy but legible.

He drafted the note for ages, discarding page after page. He didnt want it to sound like a motivational sign, but like something real, from someone who understood.

At last, he settled on:

To James,
Sometimes you need to remind yourself youre not just numbers and Zoom meetings. May you take a bit of time to see the world beyond spreadsheets. Hope you use it.
Your Secret Santa.

He reread it. His chest tightened. Not from cheesiness; from the realisation these were exactly the words he needed to hear.

This Santa was gentler to him than he usually was to himself.

He put the printout in the envelope, slid it into the notebook, wrapped both in brown paper and tied it with a thin red ribbon.

The gift looked modest. No brand names, no slogans.

The Christmas do was held in the function room downstairs. White-tableclothed tables, fairy lights, a DJ spinning tried-and-tested tunes. People trickled in, some in sequins, others in same-old shirts worn without the ID lanyard.

Presents piled up on a table by the wall, each labeled. James added his bundle, glanced at the heapglossy bags, ribboned boxes, odd foil-wrapped mysteries.

Ready for a spot of self-revelation? Judith winked as she passed.

As much as anyone can be, he replied.

Midway through the night, the compère announced the Secret Santa moment. The music dipped, the lights softened. People were merry; laughter and debate floated from the bar.

Friends, the compère began, this year our Secret Santa is more secret than everso much so, youre your own miracle worker! But lets keep playing along, shall we?

The room chuckled.

One at a time, come collect your present and open it right here. Rememberits not about whats inside, its what you learn about yourself.

Another one spouting slogans, James sighed inwardly.

When his turn came, nerves prickled as he found his name on a parcel and returned to his seat.

So? Tom leaned over. Hope its not socks.

James untied the ribbon and peeled back paper. A notebook, an envelope. His name on the front. His hands trembled.

Not a grill set, then, Tom remarked.

James opened the envelope and the letter. Around the room, someone cheered about a spa voucher, another showed off a board game, the finance office hid smiles over a yoga book, Judith cackled at a Best Employee mug.

James read the note. Then read it again. Somehow, words hed written now felt as if they truly were from a stranger who saw him.

Youre not just spreadsheets and Zooms.

Something churned painfully, as if someone had witnessed him at a low point. And yet there was relief, because that someone wasnt judging.

So, what is it? Tom pressed.

A photography course, and a notebook, James croaked.

Serious effort! Must be someone from the creatives. And were not supposed to guess, right?

Supposedly not.

Ah well, Tom went back to admiring his grill set. Youll have to do the dos official photos next! Knew itd pay off.

James closed the notebook gently. The compère cracked a joke, people spun round the dancefloor. The room was loud, but his thoughts went quieter.

He caught a glimpse of a text from his wife: Hows it going? He replied: All good. The gifts are funny. I got myself a courseand then deleted that line, replacing it with, Tell you later.

He got home near midnight. The hallway was silent except for a door slamming somewhere above. A warm glow came from the kitchen, and the scent of clementines greeted him. His wife sat at the table with a book; their son was asleep.

So? she asked. What did you get?

He put the notebook and envelope on the table.

Thats it? she raised a brow.

Theres more inside, he said, opening the envelope.

She read the note and looked up at him.

You wrote this to yourself? she asked gently.

I did. And I paid for a coursephotography.

She nodded. No jokes, no teasing.

Its a good gift, she said. You always loved that.

That was ages ago.

So what? Doesnt mean its gone.

He shrugged, but something shifted inside, like moving a sofa youd let sit in the same spot for years.

Well see, he said.

On 1st January, James woke without an alarm. Outside, a grey morning, car parks full, stubborn patches of snow. He felt groggy, but his head didnt ache. His wife and son had left for her parents last night; he was to join them this afternoon.

The flat was unusually quiet. He made coffee, sat down, and opened the notebook. The words hed writtenFor the photos you havent yet takenlooked back at him.

He opened his laptop and found the course email. The first lesson started next week, but the introductory video was already there. He clicked it and listened to a calm voice talking not about self-improvement or efficiency, but the importance of noticing light and shadow.

He realisedastonishedthat he wasnt also checking work email. His phone was in the other room, and he wasnt tempted to reach for it.

Afterwards, he picked up his camera and stepped outside. The air was chilly but not harsh. People carried out boxes, dogs barked, confetti from last nights crackers littered the playground.

He raised the camera; childrens climbing frames, overhanging branches, telephone wires, all fell into view. Nothing special. But as he pressed the shutter, it seemed importanttiny, but real.

Not for the report, not for KPIs, not for a slide deck. Just for himself.

He took a few more photos and headed back, loading them to his laptop. Most were nothing much, some simply dull. But one shot, where the opposite blocks windows reflected in a cars windscreen, caught his eye.

He zoomed in, looking closer. His own silhouette, camera in hand, was faint in the glass.

A gift from a stranger, he thought. Except, the stranger was me. And thats all right.

He closed the programme and finished his now-tepid coffee. Ahead lay the first workday, unfinished tasks, emails, Teams calls. And the course, starting next week. And an hour, set aside, just for him.

He picked up the notebook, wrote the date on a fresh page. Then, a line: Car park, morning, reflection in glass. It looked meagre, but it was his.

He set the pen down and realised, for the first time in a long while, he was thinking about the future as more than just debts and deadlines. In that future, a tiny space now existed, just for looking, noticing, choosing what he wanted.

It wasnt much. But it was enough to breathe easier.

He poured himself another coffee, pulled up the course timetable. At the bottom of the page was a field for notes. He typed: No cancelling for work meetings. Then smirkedlife would intervene, as always. But now, at least, he had the right to try.

And that, too, was a gift.