I always felt like what I was doing wasn't selling toys; I was

Host: The snow fell slowly, silently, like ashes from some gentle heaven. A streetlight flickered, its golden glow painting the frosted window of a small, lonely toy shop on the corner of a quiet street. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of pine, paint, and the faint melody of an old record — Johnny Mathis’s “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” spun with a faint crackle on a turntable older than both of them.

Jack stood behind the counter, his hands dusty with bits of wood and glue, his eyes fixed on a half-finished wooden train. Jeeny sat near the window, a cup of coffee between her palms, watching the snowflakes dance in the light.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How a song, or even the sight of a toy, can pull you back into childhood — as if time forgets itself for a moment.”

Jack: “Or maybe it just tricks you. Nostalgia’s a clever liar, Jeeny. It makes you believe the past was better than it ever was.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, roughened by fatigue, but underneath it lingered something softer — a wistful tremor he tried to hide behind sarcasm.

Jeeny: “You think that’s all it is? A lie? Then what about Johnny Mathis — when he said he wasn’t just selling toys or songs, but making a happy sound at Christmas? That feeling… that’s not a lie, Jack. That’s what keeps the world from going cold.”

Jack: “It’s a nice story, Jeeny. But I’ve seen how the world really works. The guy selling toys isn’t chasing magic; he’s chasing profit. The people who buy them — they’re trying to fill a hole. Christmas isn’t about ‘happy sounds.’ It’s about commerce, advertising, and illusion. We sell memories because people can’t create new ones.”

Host: A draft whispered through the door, carrying the faint echo of children’s laughter outside. Jeeny’s eyes softened, though her voice gained edge.

Jeeny: “You’re always so certain that everything is about money. But don’t you see — those sounds, those toys, those moments — they become the memory. When a father sees his child open a gift and smile, when a song reminds an old woman of her youth… that’s real, Jack. That’s meaning.”

Jack: “Meaning doesn’t pay the bills. Meaning doesn’t keep the lights on. You know how many people I’ve seen destroyed chasing some idea of emotional purity? Ask the musicians, the artists, the dreamers. They start with love, end with debt. The system eats their meaning and sells it back as a product.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you’re here, making toys. If you really believed that, why do you still make them?”

Host: The room fell silent, except for the faint crack of the record’s needle. Jack’s hands stilled. A drop of varnish slid down the side of the train, catching the light like a tear.

Jack: “Because I don’t know how to stop. It’s… what I do. I build things. Maybe I just like the quiet. Maybe it’s better than thinking.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. You build because you want to make someone happy. You can deny it, but I’ve seen your face when a kid runs out of here holding something you made. That’s your ‘happy sound.’”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He looked toward the window, where the snow now fell in thick, glowing sheets under the streetlight. His reflection looked like a man caught between realities — one hand in the present, the other clutching the ghost of his childhood.

Jack: “You know, my old man used to say Christmas was just a distraction. ‘Keep the people busy with jingles,’ he said, ‘so they don’t notice the world falling apart.’ And maybe he was right. During the war, they played those songs over the radio, pretending everything was fine while people froze in the trenches.”

Jeeny: “And still — they sang, didn’t they? Even in the trenches. That’s the point, Jack. When everything is falling apart, we cling to whatever beauty we can find. The song doesn’t lie — it survives. It keeps the heart alive when reason fails.”

Jack: “Beauty doesn’t rebuild cities, Jeeny. It doesn’t feed children.”

Jeeny: “Neither does cynicism.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like a bell’s echo, vibrating through the quiet. Jack’s eyes flinched, as if struck. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The record skipped, then caught itself, repeating the same line again — “Through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow…”

Jeeny: “When Johnny Mathis said those words, he wasn’t talking about profit or nostalgia. He was talking about connection. About how something as simple as a song can bring us back to the people we love. Don’t you feel that when you hear a familiar tune? Even for a second?”

Jack: “I feel… something. But it’s not comfort. It’s ache. Like hearing a language you once knew but forgot how to speak.”

Jeeny: “That’s still connection, Jack. Even the ache means you cared once.”

Host: Jack exhaled, the sound deep and uneven. The train sat between them, unfinished — half a body, half a dream. Outside, a child’s laughter echoed again, muffled by the glass. Jack turned, his eyes following the sound.

Jack: “You think what we do matters that much?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s the only thing that ever has.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked loudly, like a metronome for their breathing. The shop was a cathedral of small wonders — tin robots, stuffed bears, and wooden horses, all waiting for someone to bring them to life. A faint draft stirred a ribbon on one of the boxes, making it flutter like a heartbeat.

Jack: “When I was a kid, my mother played Mathis every Christmas morning. The house smelled of cinnamon and burnt toast. I’d sit by the window, watching snow that never seemed to melt. I thought it would last forever. But when she died, the music stopped meaning anything. It just hurt.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you still remember the smell, the sound, the feeling. That’s the proof it mattered. The pain you feel now — that’s love trying to find a place to rest.”

Host: Jack’s fingers tightened around the train. His voice was almost a whisper.

Jack: “So you’re saying meaning isn’t about what we make, but what people remember?”

Jeeny: “Meaning is the bridge between the making and the remembering. You build something… and if it carries a piece of you, it becomes more than a thing. It becomes a sound — a happy sound, like Mathis said — echoing through someone else’s winter.”

Jack: “And if no one hears it?”

Jeeny: “Then it still exists. Just like stars we can’t see still burn beyond the clouds.”

Host: The snow outside had deepened, swallowing the street, muffling the world into a kind of holy silence. Jack set the train down, its paint glistening wet beneath the lamplight. Jeeny rose, walked to the counter, and placed her hand gently over his.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack, maybe we’re all just trying to make a little happy sound in someone else’s winter. That’s not selling toys. That’s saving hearts.”

Jack: “And maybe you’re right, Jeeny. Maybe meaning isn’t measured in what we earn, but in what we restore.”

Host: Their hands remained, still and warm, between them the tiny train, a symbol of all that was fragile yet enduring in the human heart. The record reached its final note, the needle scratching softly — like the last breath of a dream refusing to end.

Jeeny: “You could finish it tomorrow, you know. The train.”

Jack: “Yeah. Maybe I will.”

Host: The lamp flickered, casting long shadows across the walls, where rows of toys seemed to watch, silent and tender. Outside, the snow finally stopped, and the first light of morning crept over the horizon, turning the frosted glass into a thousand tiny diamonds.

And in that quiet, between the end of the song and the beginning of day, the world made its own small, happy sound.