The twenty-fifth of December.
For the past 17 years of my life, this date held no special meaning to me.
I was aware that this day, during the final, twelfth month of the year, represented Christmas―and all that supplemented it―festivities, joy, and celebration, but I was no more or less attached to this particular 359th day of the year than I was to any other.
Even during my time in the Wardens' Playground, where Christmas was celebrated just as it would be anywhere else in the world, I struggled to find a point to it.
Its origins stem from a place of religious belief; these days, few take notice of such a fact.
The other kids in the Playground were deluded by the lies of a fantastical man who would deliver gifts to all the children in the world within a single evening.
