According to an ancient Sardinian legend, the bodies of those who

Host: The wind drifted through the empty alleys of an old coastal town, carrying the salt of the sea and the faint scent of burning pine. The sky hung low, heavy with storm clouds, as if the heavens themselves were brooding. A church bell tolled in the distance — slow, mournful, ancient.

It was Christmas Eve.

In a small tavern by the harbor, candles flickered in trembling glass holders. Shadows of fishermen’s nets swayed on the walls. The place was half asleep, save for two figures by the window — Jack, with his grey eyes fixed on the rain-streaked glass, and Jeeny, her long dark hair catching the candlelight like strands of night itself.

Neither spoke at first. The air was full of that unspoken weight — the kind that comes with too many thoughts, too many ghosts. Then, Jeeny set her cup down softly and broke the silence.

Jeeny: “I read something strange tonight. Grazia Deledda once wrote — ‘According to an ancient Sardinian legend, the bodies of those who are born on Christmas Eve will never dissolve into dust but are preserved until the end of time.’”

Host: Jack looked up, one eyebrow arched. A thin wisp of smoke rose from his cigarette, curling like a question mark above his hand.

Jack: “Sounds like one of those poetic superstitions — people trying to romanticize death. The idea that some bodies defy time? It’s beautiful, sure… but absurd.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not absurd. Maybe symbolic. Those born on the edge of something sacred — life and divinity, light and shadow — they belong to both worlds. Perhaps the legend isn’t about the body, Jack. Perhaps it’s about the soul that refuses to decay.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his chair creaking softly. His eyes, grey as winter steel, seemed to measure her words like weights on a scale.

Jack: “You always make myths sound moral, Jeeny. But legends like that — they come from fear. People don’t want to believe they’ll disappear. So they invent eternity. Dust is terrifying — it means we end.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that fear itself proof that we’re meant for something more? Why would we long for eternity if we weren’t built to sense it?”

Jack: “Because longing doesn’t prove destiny. It proves desperation. People also long for youth, money, and peace — doesn’t mean they’ll get it.”

Host: The candles fluttered as a gust of wind slipped through the cracks in the window frame. Outside, the sea crashed against the rocks, its voice deep and rhythmic, like the breathing of some ancient god.

Jeeny: “You don’t believe in anything that can’t be measured, do you?”

Jack: “I believe in gravity, math, and mortality. Everything else is decoration.”

Jeeny: “Then you must live in a very small world.”

Host: Her words lingered, gentle but sharp. Jack looked at her, the faintest trace of a smirk breaking through the solemn air.

Jack: “Maybe. But at least it’s real.”

Jeeny: “Real isn’t always enough, Jack. The Sardinians — they lived surrounded by the sea, by isolation. Myths were their way of touching infinity. Imagine it — a night so holy that even death hesitates. Isn’t that a kind of truth too?”

Jack: “A poetic truth, maybe. But not reality. The dead rot, Jeeny. Whether born on Christmas or under lightning, the earth doesn’t discriminate.”

Jeeny: “And yet, every Christmas Eve, millions light candles for someone who’s gone. They speak their names. Tell me — isn’t that preservation too? Maybe their bodies decay, but the memory doesn’t. Isn’t that another kind of eternity?”

Host: Jack paused, his cigarette halfway to his lips. His expression softened — not agreement, but curiosity. The rain outside had slowed, turning into a soft mist that clung to the glass.

Jack: “You mean legend as memory. The mind preserving what the flesh can’t.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We preserve people with love, with story. Grazia Deledda wasn’t talking about bones — she was talking about remembrance. Those born on that night are symbols — reminders that something divine can live inside human fragility.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the door, making the flames dance wildly. The bells from the church echoed again, closer now, rolling like distant thunder through the cobblestone streets.

Jack: “If that’s true, then maybe immortality isn’t in being remembered — maybe it’s in being misunderstood beautifully.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “That’s not cynicism, Jack. That’s poetry. You’re slipping.”

Jack: (grinning) “Don’t tell anyone.”

Host: They both laughed softly — the kind of laugh that sounds like relief in disguise. Then silence again, tender and reflective.

Jack: “But still… think about it. ‘Preserved until the end of time’ — it sounds suffocating too, doesn’t it? No decay means no release. Imagine being trapped between eternity and flesh — an unending corpse.”

Jeeny: “That’s only terrifying if you see the body as a prison. What if it’s the vessel of memory itself? In some traditions, bones are sacred — they’re not just remains, they’re roots. The living and the dead coexist.”

Jack: “You sound like a mystic.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I’m just tired of logic pretending it has all the answers.”

Host: The rain had stopped. The moon began to pierce through the clouds, silver light spilling into the room, catching the dust in the air — each particle suspended, glittering, refusing to fall.

Jeeny: “Look at that.”

Jack: (softly) “Dust that won’t settle.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Deledda meant. That some things — love, loss, faith — they don’t dissolve. They stay suspended, waiting for someone to notice.”

Jack: “Or they haunt us forever.”

Jeeny: “Maybe haunting is just another form of remembering.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. The church bells roared across the town. Somewhere outside, the sound of laughter and carols rose in the cold air. A group of children ran through the streets holding candles, their voices echoing against the stone walls.

Jack: “Strange, isn’t it? A legend about immortality on a night that’s supposed to celebrate birth.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re the same. Birth and immortality — one starts the story, the other refuses to end it.”

Jack: “And everything in between?”

Jeeny: “That’s the part we get to write.”

Host: For a long moment, they sat in silence. The candlelight flickered across their faces — one carved from reason, the other glowing with belief. The moonlight touched the table between them, a pale bridge connecting two different worlds.

Jack: (quietly) “So maybe… the bodies don’t dissolve because the stories don’t. And maybe that’s enough.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s all eternity ever meant.”

Host: Outside, the waves crashed again, softer now, as if the sea had accepted something ancient and inevitable. The town slept, the bells faded, and the night breathed — vast, eternal, tender.

The dust in the moonlight hung perfectly still, caught between falling and floating, between the world of the living and whatever lies beyond.

And somewhere in that stillness, their shared silence became the legend itself — preserved, like all things born on Christmas Eve, until the end of time.