The Polar Express by Chris Van Allsburg

On Christmas Eve, many years ago, I lay quietly in my bed. I didn’t rustle the sheets and I breathed slowly and silently. I was listening for a sound – a sound a friend had told me I’d never hear – the ringing bells of Santa’s sleigh. My friend insisted that there is no Santa, but I knew he was wrong.

Late that night I did hear sounds, though not of ringing bells. From outside came the sounds of hissing steam and squeaking metal. I looked through my window and saw a train standing perfectly still in front of my house.

We climbed mountains so high it seemed as if we would scrape the moon. But the Polar Express never slowed down. Faster and faster we ran along, rolling over peaks and through valleys like a car on a roller coaster and with a screech of metal we rounded the final corner and found ourselves gliding gently into a moonlit valley.