Happy, happy Christmas, that can win us back to the delusions of

Host: The snow had begun to fall in thick, deliberate flakes, blanketing the city street in a hush so deep it felt like the world had been gently muted. The lamplight outside flickered through the window, soft and golden against the white. Inside, the old bookstore glowed with a quiet, nostalgic warmth — wooden shelves, their edges polished by time, sagged under the weight of stories and ghosts.

A small fireplace crackled near the back, its flame reflecting in the glass of forgotten picture frames — Dickens, Austen, Woolf. A faint melody from a record player — something old, something brass and sentimental — hummed through the room like a lullaby that had been waiting decades to be heard again.

Jack stood by the window, his hands tucked in his coat pockets, watching the snow gather on the cobblestones outside. Jeeny was seated near the fire, legs curled beneath her, her face illuminated by the dancing light. In her hands, a copy of A Christmas Carol, its pages yellowed but still full of breath.

Jeeny: (reading aloud softly) “‘Happy, happy Christmas, that can win us back to the delusions of our childhood days, recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth, and transport the traveler back to his own fireside and quiet home!’”

(She looked up, smiling faintly.) “Only Dickens could write something that still feels warm a century later.”

Jack: (turning from the window, half-smiling) “Warm? He called it a delusion, Jeeny. That’s not warmth — that’s nostalgia with a warning label.”

Host: The fire crackled, the sound filling the brief silence. A soft draft moved through the cracks of the old window, stirring the faint scent of pine and old paper.

Jeeny looked at Jack the way one looks at a storm — curious, patient, unafraid.

Jeeny: “You always focus on the shadows of beautiful things. Maybe that’s why you miss their light.”

Jack: (shrugging, sitting across from her) “Maybe. Or maybe I just don’t pretend the light isn’t temporary. Dickens knew that too. Every Christmas ends. The laughter fades. The fire dies down. The tree dries out and ends up in the street.”

Jeeny: (gently) “That’s what makes it beautiful, Jack. It’s not meant to last — it’s meant to remind.”

Host: She turned the book slightly, letting her fingers trace the edge of the page, the paper thin as breath. The record on the player skipped softly, then continued its slow, tender waltz.

Jeeny: “Christmas isn’t a delusion. It’s a pause — a chance to remember the parts of ourselves we forget the rest of the year. The child we used to be. The joy we once let ourselves believe in.”

Jack: “Belief is easy when you’re a child. Everything’s magic then. But when you’ve buried people, watched things fall apart, belief becomes... heavier. More expensive.”

Jeeny: “Then that’s exactly why we need it. Because we forget how to believe. Because the world wears the wonder out of us.”

Host: The flame flickered higher for a moment, throwing soft shadows against the wall — shapes that looked almost like memories moving through the light. Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes distant.

Jack: “When I was eight, my dad used to take me to the town square every Christmas Eve. There’d be a choir, hot chocolate, the smell of woodsmoke everywhere. He’d lift me up on his shoulders so I could see the lights. For one night, everything felt perfect.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “What happened to that boy?”

Jack: (quietly) “He grew up. His father stopped showing up. The choir stopped singing. And the lights... didn’t shine the same.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. They did. You just stopped looking.”

Host: Her words fell like snowflakes, soft but piercing. Jack looked at her — really looked — and for the briefest moment, something flickered in his eyes: recognition, maybe even longing. The fire hissed again, sending a small spray of embers upward, little red stars that faded before reaching the chimney.

Jeeny: “That’s what Dickens meant — that Christmas can win us back to the delusions of our childhood days. He wasn’t mocking them. He was honoring them. Because sometimes, delusion is what saves us. The ability to feel joy even when reason says we shouldn’t.”

Jack: (with a faint, broken laugh) “You’re saying happiness is a kind of madness?”

Jeeny: “Of course it is. The most beautiful kind. The kind that heals.”

Host: Outside, a small group of carolers appeared under the lamplight, their voices soft against the hum of the snow — not professional, not perfect, but sincere. Their tune drifted through the slightly open window, filling the shop with that strange, aching warmth that only comes in winter.

Jack: (listening) “You really think all this... this nostalgia, this sentimentality — you think it’s worth clinging to?”

Jeeny: (her voice tender but firm) “It’s not about clinging. It’s about remembering. Every year, we stand in front of the same fire and tell ourselves the same stories — not because they change, but because we do. And in that change, they feel new again.”

Jack: “But it’s built on illusion — the idea that everything can be fixed by a song, or a gift, or a smile.”

Jeeny: “Maybe illusion is the point. Maybe happiness isn’t found in truth, but in mercy — in the moments we let ourselves forget how hard the world can be.”

Host: Jack turned his gaze to the fire. The reflection of the flames danced in his eyes — restless, searching, almost childlike. He set his glass down and rubbed his palms together, the old habit of a man unsure how to hold warmth.

Jack: “You ever wish you could go back? Just for a night?”

Jeeny: (after a long pause) “I don’t need to go back. I just need to remember. That’s enough.”

Jack: “How do you do that?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “I let Christmas do it for me.”

Host: The carolers’ song outside swelled slightly — ‘Silent Night’, imperfect but full of grace. The old walls of the bookstore seemed to listen, to breathe. Jack stood, moved to the window, and watched as a small child threw a handful of snow into the air, laughing as it fell back over her like stardust.

For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then, almost to himself—

Jack: “Maybe Dickens wasn’t talking about delusion. Maybe he meant... redemption. The kind that doesn’t need miracles, just memory.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Exactly. The kind that lets even the tiredest soul feel twelve years old again — if only for a night.”

Host: She closed the book gently and set it beside the fire. The flames had burned lower now, softer, gentler — like a lullaby finding its final note.

Jeeny leaned back in her chair, her eyes half-closed. Jack stayed at the window, the snow’s reflection painting his face in silver.

And there it was — the stillness. The one Dickens wrote about without naming it: that moment when time, sorrow, and hope sit together quietly, and no one feels like a stranger anymore.

The carolers moved on, their voices fading down the street. The record player stopped with a soft click.

Inside, Jack turned back to the fire and smiled — not cynically this time, but like a man remembering something fragile and good.

Jeeny opened her eyes and met his.

Jeeny: (whispering) “Merry Christmas, Jack.”

Jack: (nodding, a small smile at the corner of his lips) “Merry Christmas, Jeeny.”

Host: Outside, the snow kept falling — patient, infinite, forgiving. It covered the streets, the rooftops, the broken places.

And somewhere between the fire’s glow and the frosted glass, between memory and hope, two weary hearts found what Dickens promised:
not perfection,
not escape,
but that brief, luminous delusion that feels, for one fleeting breath, like home.