Tomte

The Bowl at Midnight

What if the safest guard on a farm was shorter than the fence posts?

After midnight, the Tomte moved through the barn in a red cap, brushing frost from latches with weathered hands.

By dawn, the animals were calm, the gate stood straight, and a bowl waited by the stove.

Night Watch

Steam curled from the porridge, and the yellow butter gleamed like a small promise in the dark kitchen.

The Tomte paused at the threshold, his brows easing beneath the red cap.

He ate in silence, then checked each stall and listened beside the sleeping animals.

For a while, the farm answered with full pails, and the bowl kept waiting by the stove.

The Offering

One winter evening, the bowl came late without a trace of butter.

The Tomte stared at the thin porridge, jaw tight, while the lantern shook against the kitchen wall.

By sunrise, the milk soured, the gate sagged, and the animals kicked at the dark.

The Missing Butter

By morning, the bowl returned, crowned with a thick gold pat of butter.

The Tomte took one spoonful, and the barn seemed to breathe again under the snow.

That same red cap still enters winter homes across Sweden.

Gifts reach children, and butter still gleams by the stove.

The Red Cap Remains

The Bowl at Midnight
By Pandi
2026
Night Watch
What if the safest guard on a farm was shorter than the fence posts?
After midnight, the Tomte moved through the barn in a red cap, brushing frost from latches with weathered hands.
By dawn, the animals were calm, the gate stood straight, and a bowl waited by the stove.
The Offering
Steam curled from the porridge, and the yellow butter gleamed like a small promise in the dark kitchen.
The Tomte paused at the threshold, his brows easing beneath the red cap.
He ate in silence, then checked each stall and listened beside the sleeping animals.
For a while, the farm answered with full pails, and the bowl kept waiting by the stove.
The Missing Butter
One winter evening, the bowl came late without a trace of butter.
The Tomte stared at the thin porridge, jaw tight, while the lantern shook against the kitchen wall.
By sunrise, the milk soured, the gate sagged, and the animals kicked at the dark.
The Red Cap Remains
By morning, the bowl returned, crowned with a thick gold pat of butter.
The Tomte took one spoonful, and the barn seemed to breathe again under the snow.
That same red cap still enters winter homes across Sweden.
Gifts reach children, and butter still gleams by the stove.

The Story of the Tomte - Story Book

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