Christmas is never going to go away, and it's always going to be

Host: The snow drifted across the small-town street, glowing under the amber lamps like dust of heaven. A quiet café sat at the corner — its windows fogged, its doorbell soft, its music faintly humming an old Christmas tune. Inside, Jack leaned on the wooden counter, a half-empty mug before him, his breath slow, his eyes distant. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her coffee, the steam rising like ghosts of memory. Outside, a choir’s echo lingered in the cold air, as if the whole world held its breath in the presence of December.

Jeeny: “Johnny Mathis once said, ‘Christmas is never going to go away, and it's always going to be there. And there's always room for one more Christmas song.’”

Jack: “Room for one more song, huh? Sounds like he’s selling nostalgia. The industry thrives on it. Every year, same tunes, same lights, same fake joy — recycled and repackaged.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, almost tired, his grey eyes flicking toward the frosted window where the reflection of twinkling lights trembled in the glass.

Jeeny: “You think it’s fake because it repeats. But maybe repetition is the point, Jack. Maybe some things should stay — even when everything else changes.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s the illusion of permanence. People cling to rituals because they’re afraid of seeing the world for what it is — unpredictable, fragile, temporary.”

Jeeny: “You sound like Scrooge.”

Jack: “He was just realistic.”

Host: The clock ticked above them, its hands moving like a slow heartbeat. The café door opened briefly — a rush of cold air carried in laughter from the street, then closed again, sealing them in a bubble of warmth and doubt.

Jeeny: “You know, every December my mother would hum the same carols while baking. Even when we had nothing — no money, no tree — she’d hum. And somehow, it felt like we had everything.”

Jack: “That’s sentiment, not truth. Your mother’s songs didn’t fill the fridge or fix the bills.”

Jeeny: “No, but they filled the silence. Sometimes that’s enough.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glimmered, the coffee steam curling between them like a veil. Jack shifted, his jaw tightening, his hands tracing the rim of his cup.

Jack: “You can’t live on songs, Jeeny. The world’s not kind enough for that. The bills don’t disappear because people sing about angels.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But singing makes people remember they have angels — even if they’re just in each other.”

Jack: “That’s the problem. People sing, feel better for a night, then wake up to the same empty streets. It’s a lullaby for adults — a way to pretend life’s softer than it is.”

Host: A pause hung between them — long, heavy, filled with the sound of the old record playing behind the counter: ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas.’ The melody cracked, as if even the vinyl carried a scar.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder why this song still plays seventy years later? Because people still believe in home — even when they’ve lost it. That belief keeps the lights burning.”

Jack: “Belief doesn’t heat the room.”

Jeeny: “But it makes people light fires.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled, yet it carried warmth, a fierce gentleness that pressed against Jack’s cold logic like fire on frost. Jack exhaled, a slow sigh that misted in the air, his eyes softening.

Jack: “You know, during the war, soldiers listened to those same carols. On frozen fields, in bombed-out trenches. Maybe it gave them comfort — or maybe it reminded them what they’d never get back.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. But that’s what makes it sacred, Jack — the ache and the hope together. People sang because silence would’ve killed them faster.”

Host: The lights flickered; a child’s laughter burst from outside. The sound reached them through the glass, delicate as snowfall.

Jack: “So you think Christmas songs are a kind of survival?”

Jeeny: “I think they’re proof that humanity refuses to stop singing, even in the dark.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But there’s also a business behind every melody. Every December, record labels push out another album because they know people will buy it — chasing the ghost of feeling.”

Jeeny: “So what if they profit? Maybe some things can be both — business and beauty. The fact that millions still want to feel that warmth means something’s still alive inside us.”

Host: Jack chuckled, a dry sound that broke the tension. His eyes glinted, not with mockery, but with melancholy.

Jack: “You make it sound like Christmas songs are the soul of humanity.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not the soul. But they’re the hum beneath it — the part that says, ‘We’re still here. We still care.’”

Jack: “And yet, every January, people throw their trees away, pack up the lights, and go back to pretending they’re alone again.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s just part of the cycle — like breathing. You exhale the magic, but you know it’ll come back.”

Host: The wind howled faintly, brushing the glass panes. The café owner dimmed the lights, leaving the world in a soft amber glow. Snowflakes pressed against the window, melting slowly, like tears that refused to fall.

Jack: “When I was a kid, my dad used to play Johnny Mathis every Christmas. His voice — smooth, hopeful. I used to think he believed in it. Then one year, he stopped. No tree, no records, no words. Just silence.”

Jeeny: “What happened?”

Jack: “Life. Debt. Divorce. Death. Take your pick.”

Jeeny: “And yet you still remember the songs.”

Host: Jeeny’s tone was gentle, but it struck deep. Jack’s eyes wavered, as if the ghost of a melody passed behind them. He looked away.

Jack: “Yeah. Maybe because they belonged to a version of him I wanted to keep.”

Jeeny: “Then that’s what Mathis meant, Jack. Christmas doesn’t go away. It stays — not in the lights or gifts, but in the memories we refuse to bury.”

Host: The music shifted to another tune — a soft jazz rendition of ‘Silent Night.’ The notes lingered, haunting and sweet. The room seemed to breathe with them.

Jack: “So you think every new Christmas song is just… another memory waiting to be born?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Like another heartbeat added to the rhythm of the world. There’s always room for one more because there’s always one more soul that needs to be reminded it’s not alone.”

Jack: “And when that stops?”

Jeeny: “Then the world stops being human.”

Host: Silence again. The kind that doesn’t divide but heals. Outside, a couple walked by, hands clasped, their footsteps muffled by the snow. The light from the café framed them in a halo of soft gold.

Jack: “You really believe songs can keep humanity alive?”

Jeeny: “I do. Because every note is a refusal to forget joy.”

Jack: “Even when the joy’s artificial?”

Jeeny: “Especially then. Artificial joy still saves people. A lie told with love is sometimes a kind of truth.”

Host: Jack smiled, faintly. A crack of warmth through his usual cynicism. He looked at Jeeny, and for the first time that night, his eyes reflected light, not shadows.

Jack: “Alright. Maybe Mathis had a point. Maybe the world does need another Christmas song. God knows it needs something.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you should write one.”

Jack: “What would I even call it?”

Jeeny: “Start with what you just said — ‘The World Needs Something.’ That sounds like Christmas to me.”

Host: The record ended, the needle lifting with a soft hiss. The café owner began to close the register, the street outside now quiet except for the gentle fall of snow. Jack stood, slipping his coat on. Jeeny rose too, her scarf loose, her eyes bright.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe you’re right. Maybe some songs don’t belong to the radio — they belong to the people who keep believing.”

Jeeny: “And maybe belief is the last instrument we’ll ever need.”

Host: They stepped out into the night, the snowflakes swirling around them like tiny sparks of light. The streetlights flickered, the air shimmering with the whisper of an old tune. Somewhere far off, a child began to sing, off-key but pure.

The world held still — listening, remembering, hoping.

And in that fragile, glowing silence, it was true:
there was always room for one more Christmas song.