Christmas morning at Grandma and Grandpa’s house feels like waking up inside a secret wonderland. The house is quiet but full at the same time, like it’s holding its breath. I wake up early anyway. The air smells different here—like coffee, cinnamon, and something already cooking even though it’s still morning. The living room glows softly from the tree lights, and the presents sit underneath, waiting patiently, wrapped in shiny paper and bows that look too pretty to touch. My heart beats fast just looking at them, like they might open themselves if I stare long enough.

Outside, everything is covered in snow. It looks brand new, like the world got replaced overnight. The yard is smooth and white, and the trees sparkle when the light hits them just right. I press my hands to the cold window and watch my breath fog the glass. Inside, it’s warm and safe. Socks slide on the floor. Someone whispers. Someone laughs softly. Time feels slower here, like Christmas morning doesn’t want to rush past us.

The kitchen smells like love. Grandma is already busy, moving gently, humming to herself. The air is filled with butter, sugar, and something warm and savory baking in the oven. It wraps around me like a blanket. Grandpa’s chair creaks, plates clink, and the house feels full of small, happy sounds. When the gifts finally start opening, paper tears and ribbons fall everywhere, but it’s loud and joyful. Everything feels bright and cozy and just right, and I wish the perfection of this moment could last forever.