Coming from Chicago, I like a white Christmas.

Host: The first snow of December drifted over the city, wrapping the old streets in a soft, pale blanket. Streetlights glowed like amber ghosts, their light dissolving into the whiteness. A piano played faintly from a bar down the block — a lazy, half-forgotten tune. The air smelled of smoke, coffee, and distant firewood.

Jack and Jeeny sat on the stoop of a worn brick building, shoulders drawn close to the cold. A thermos of whiskey-laced cocoa sat between them. The city was quiet — Chicago quiet — the kind of quiet that only snow could buy.

And on the step beside them, scribbled in chalk, someone had written:
“Coming from Chicago, I like a white Christmas.” — Dennis Franz.

Jack: “Heh. Dennis Franz — now there’s a man who knows his winters. You grow up here, you earn the right to say something like that.”

Jeeny: “You talk like snow is a badge of honor.”

Jack: “It is. It’s the city’s way of testing you. The cold, the ice, the endless gray — if you can still find beauty in it, you’ve made peace with the world.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you’ve just learned to endure it.”

Host: The wind curled down the alley, carrying the faint rattle of a loose sign. Jack took a sip from the thermos, his breath steaming into the air, eyes fixed on the soft white flakes falling over the street.

Jack: “Endure? Yeah, maybe. But isn’t that what life’s about? You don’t get to choose the weather — you just learn how to live in it.”

Jeeny: “That sounds like resignation, not acceptance.”

Jack: “Same thing in this town.”

Host: A car passed slowly, its tires whispering over the snow, headlights cutting through the haze. The world looked cleaner than it deserved — like even the dirt had been given a chance to start over.

Jeeny: “I think I like the idea of a white Christmas too. But not because of nostalgia. Because it makes everything look new — even for a day.”

Jack: “You always gotta make it poetic, huh?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But look at it, Jack. The city’s been bruised all year — politics, crime, people just trying to stay warm in more ways than one. But tonight, under the snow, all those scars get covered. It’s a kind of forgiveness.”

Jack: “Forgiveness? Snow doesn’t care. It falls on everyone the same — saints and liars alike. It’s not mercy; it’s amnesia.”

Jeeny: “Maybe amnesia is mercy. For a night, we get to forget how broken things are.”

Host: The snow thickened. Flakes clung to Jeeny’s hair, turning it silver in the streetlight. Jack brushed one from her shoulder, almost without thinking. The gesture lingered in the air, soft, unspoken.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, snow meant freedom. School canceled. Hot chocolate. My dad pretending to shovel while smoking two cigarettes. The world stopped pretending to be hard for a day.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now it just reminds me how cold people can get when they’ve forgotten what warmth feels like.”

Jeeny: “You’re talking about the weather again?”

Jack: “I’m talking about everything.”

Host: The pause between them was long, filled with the quiet hum of snowfall and distant sirens echoing somewhere deep in the city.

Jeeny: “You think people can really forget warmth? Like, permanently?”

Jack: “Yeah. Happens all the time. You live in a city long enough, you learn how to keep your hands in your pockets, your eyes low, your heart locked. You stop feeling the cold, but you stop feeling the heat too.”

Jeeny: “That’s not surviving, Jack. That’s freezing from the inside out.”

Jack: “Better that than getting burned.”

Jeeny: “You sound like Chicago itself — proud of your frostbite.”

Jack: “Damn right. Cold keeps you sharp. Teaches you to stand on your own two feet. Look — peace, love, whatever you call it — those things don’t last here unless you earn them. And snow? Snow reminds you what you’re fighting against.”

Jeeny: “You always turn beauty into battle.”

Jack: “And you always turn pain into poetry.”

Host: The snowfall slowed, softening the edges of the world. The streetlamps buzzed faintly, halos glowing around them like quiet crowns. The city seemed to listen.

Jeeny: “You know what I see when I look at this snow, Jack? Not endurance. Not nostalgia. Grace. Every flake is a small surrender. It lands, it melts, it disappears — but in doing so, it becomes part of something larger. That’s the real Chicago spirit: not toughness, but tenderness disguised as resilience.”

Jack: “Tenderness disguised as resilience… sounds nice on paper.”

Jeeny: “It’s true. People here survive not because they’re cold, but because they still care — even when it hurts. You call it frostbite; I call it love with chapped hands.”

Jack: “You’d make a good poet, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “And you’d make a good cynic in denial.”

Host: A small laugh escaped Jack, the first real one of the night. It lingered like warmth against the cold air.

Jack: “You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe the snow isn’t just cold. Maybe it’s a reminder — that the world still knows how to start over.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That no matter how dirty the ground gets, the sky still tries to cover it with light.”

Jack: “That’s beautiful. You sure you’re not from the South Side? That kind of talk sounds too hopeful for Chicago.”

Jeeny: “Hope is rebellion here. It’s what keeps us human when the winter drags too long.”

Host: The church bells rang from across the street, muffled by the snow, slow and heavy — like time moving carefully. The sound filled the space between them.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why I like a white Christmas too. It’s not the snow — it’s the pause. The world stops yelling for a minute. People smile at strangers. You get to believe, even if it’s a lie.”

Jeeny: “And sometimes a lie that gives warmth is better than a truth that freezes you.”

Jack: “You always know how to twist the knife and heal the wound at the same time.”

Jeeny: “That’s what warmth does. It hurts before it melts.”

Host: The snow had nearly stopped now, leaving a calm hush over the streets. The city looked reborn — simple, white, untouched. The moonlight slipped through the clouds, brushing their faces in silver.

Jack handed Jeeny the thermos, his glove brushing hers.

Jack: “Merry Christmas, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Merry Christmas, Jack.”

Host: They sat there as the night deepened, two small silhouettes framed by falling light. Around them, the city breathed — cold, vast, alive — its heart beating beneath layers of snow.

And somewhere, between the frost and the faint scent of cocoa, there was warmth — quiet, undeserved, but real.

The camera pulled back, revealing the rooftops blanketed in white, the streets gleaming like frozen rivers of memory. The voice of the city whispered softly through the still air:

In Chicago, the cold doesn’t kill the warmth — it proves it.