I sat there, crying.

It was not a sad day, but I was still crying.

Over such a small thing, a wooden box with rough parchment. The ink initially read “From Santa” but I think some of my tears had landed on the letters and made them run.

I haven’t even opened it yet, but there was so much there. That my home wasn’t a hallucination, that the Gods of this world were not so limiting as to prevent this, that magical methods had the potential to send me home.

I wasn’t sure if I would want to go home, but the potential being there lifted a burden I did not know I was carrying. After a moment to collect my thoughts and calm down, I lifted the simple lid.

On opening the box, I saw a knife. A camp knife sturdy enough to take shavings of wood for kindling, small enough to not get on the way in towns and cities, and intricate enough that I could wear it in the presence of nobility. It was the kind of gift, one that would be appreciated for years to come.

But that wasn’t the reason it choked me up all over again. I was once again on the verge of tears because this knife, this wonderful and reliable knife told me something.

Despite having to defend myself hours after arriving here, the lies I’ve told for self preservation and my personal failings in helping others. Despite the monsters, bandits, and animals I’ve slain. Despite all that, I didn’t get coal.

Despite all that, it seemed I was still a good kid.