Christmas was always a big holiday in our family. Every Christmas

Host: The snow was falling in slow, luminous flakes, gliding through the night air like drifting ash from a gentle fire. The town lay still beneath its white blanket, every window glowing with golden light and the faint, steady pulse of music, laughter, and memory. Inside one small house, tucked away at the end of a narrow street, a fireplace crackled. The smell of pine, cinnamon, and faint cocoa clung to the air.

Jack sat by the window, staring at the dark world outside, his reflection faint against the glass. Jeeny moved softly behind him, draping a knitted blanket over his shoulders. The firelight flickered across their faces — warm, trembling, alive.

A small book rested on the table beside them — its corners worn, its spine nearly split, the words “The Happy Prince” etched faintly on the cover.

Jeeny: “Cameron Mathison once said, ‘Christmas was always a big holiday in our family. Every Christmas Eve, before we’d go to bed, my mom and dad would read to us two or three stories — “The Happy Prince,” “The Gift of the Magi,” and “’Twas the Night Before Christmas.” And I would like to keep that alive.’ I love that. Keeping something alive… not just the stories, but the warmth inside them.”

Jack: (smiling faintly, his eyes tired) “Alive, huh? You make it sound like memory’s a living thing. I don’t know, Jeeny. Sometimes it feels more like a ghost that won’t leave.”

Host: The fire hissed softly, spitting a tiny ember that drifted upward before fading. The room seemed to tighten around them — as if time itself had drawn closer, curious to listen.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what ghosts really are — the things we love that refuse to die. The stories, the people, the moments. Isn’t that what Christmas is for? To remember, to gather, to promise that warmth still exists somewhere?”

Jack: “It used to be, maybe. When I was a kid, Christmas meant noise — my mom cooking, my dad pretending he didn’t care about the lights but checking the bulbs three times anyway. Then one year, it just… stopped meaning anything.”

Jeeny: (softly) “When she passed?”

Jack: (nodding) “Yeah. The tree didn’t look the same after that. The house was quiet. Even the gifts felt embarrassed to be opened.”

Host: The firelight trembled across his face, catching the hint of sadness in his eyes. The snow outside thickened, blurring the world into silence.

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why you should keep it alive, Jack. The stories, the rituals — they’re the bridges back to the people we’ve lost. Your mother didn’t build those traditions to fade; she built them to guide you home.”

Jack: (half-laughing, half-bitter) “Home’s just a word now. The stories don’t change that.”

Jeeny: “No, but they heal it. Think about ‘The Happy Prince.’ It’s about giving everything for love — about sacrifice that outlasts the body. Or ‘The Gift of the Magi,’ where both lovers lose what they treasure most just to make each other happy. That’s what your parents were giving you, Jack. They weren’t reading fairytales. They were teaching you how to love.”

Host: Her words fell into the quiet like soft snowflakes — light, fragile, but each carrying its own weight. Jack looked toward the fire, his hands tightening around the blanket.

Jack: “You think love is something you can learn?”

Jeeny: “No. But you can remember it. You can choose to keep its language alive. That’s what Cameron Mathison meant — not just repeating the ritual, but remembering how it made him feel safe. Alive. Connected.”

Jack: (sighing) “You always make things sound simple.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “It’s not simple. It’s sacred.”

Host: The wind brushed against the windowpane, rattling it softly. The fire popped again — a small sound, like a whisper from the past. Jeeny reached for the book on the table and opened it gently, her fingers tracing the yellowed pages.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about these stories? They all end with someone giving something away. A heart. A gift. A life. Maybe that’s what Christmas really means — giving even when you’re empty, believing even when it hurts.”

Jack: “That sounds exhausting.”

Jeeny: “It’s the only way anything lasts.”

Host: The firelight wavered, reflecting in Jeeny’s eyes like tiny stars. Jack leaned back, his face softening as he watched her read the first few lines aloud.

Jeeny: (reading softly) “‘High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince…’”

Host: Her voice floated through the room, smooth and tender. Jack closed his eyes. For a moment, the world felt smaller, warmer. He could almost hear another voice — faint, fragile — his mother’s, reading that same story decades ago.

Jack: (whispering) “I used to fall asleep before she finished. She’d keep reading anyway.”

Jeeny: “Then let’s finish it for her tonight.”

Host: The fire crackled louder, as if it understood. The snow outside glowed faintly in the reflection of the flames.

As Jeeny read, Jack’s expression changed — the stiffness in his jaw melting, his eyes glistening in the golden dim.

Jack: “Funny. I thought I’d forgotten the sound of those words. But they feel… familiar. Like they’ve been waiting somewhere, in the corner of my mind.”

Jeeny: “That’s what stories do. They wait. They forgive you for forgetting.”

Host: Her words lingered. Outside, a church bell rang in the distance — slow, deep, and solemn. Jack looked toward it, his breath visible in the firelight.

Jack: “Do you think… she can still hear it? Wherever she is?”

Jeeny: “I think love is an echo, Jack. It travels farther than we can imagine. Maybe every time you read these stories, she hears them too.”

Host: A single tear slipped down his cheek, catching the glow of the fire before it fell. He didn’t wipe it away. He let it stay.

Jeeny: “That’s what keeping it alive means. Not pretending everything’s still the same — but carrying forward the part that still breathes in you.”

Jack: (softly) “Then maybe… this is home. Not the house. Not the holiday. Just this — the remembering.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly. The heart keeps the lights on long after the power goes out.”

Host: The fire burned lower, its embers glowing like a field of sleeping stars. Jeeny closed the book gently, setting it back on the table. Jack sat in silence, his hands steady now, his breath slow.

Outside, the snow had stopped. The moon peeked through the clouds, lighting the white world in silver.

Jeeny: “Tomorrow we’ll read the next one — ‘The Gift of the Magi.’ And the day after that, ‘’Twas the Night Before Christmas.’ Let’s keep it alive, Jack — not because we have to, but because we still can.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Alright. One story at a time.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — from the small, firelit room, through the frost-touched window, out into the silent street, where every house glowed like a lantern against the dark.

Somewhere, far beyond the snow, a memory breathed again — a voice from years ago reading softly to a child who had fallen asleep before the ending.

And now, in the quiet rhythm of two hearts, that same story continued — alive again, as Cameron Mathison once hoped it would be:
Not as a tradition.
But as a promise — that love, once spoken aloud, never truly fades.