I had written a book that dealt with really serious issues. Was

Host: The first snow of winter fell like slow forgiveness — soft, reluctant, and glowing under the streetlamps. The town square was mostly empty now, save for the faint strains of a Christmas song leaking from a nearby café, its melody warm against the quiet.

Inside, the air smelled of coffee, cinnamon, and something older — nostalgia, perhaps. The kind that only returns in December.

Jack sat by the window, watching the snowflakes spiral down, tracing one with his finger against the fogged glass before it vanished. His notebook lay open in front of him, the first line scribbled and scratched out five times.

Jeeny arrived, brushing snow from her coat, her cheeks flushed from the cold. She carried two cups of cocoa and a small wrapped gift, setting them on the table with that same quiet grace she carried everywhere — a softness that seemed immune to the cynicism of the world.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Jay Asher once said, ‘I had written a book that dealt with really serious issues. Was anybody going to want to read a Christmas love story from me?’”
She sat down across from him, watching his tired expression. “You look like you understand that question a little too well tonight.”

Jack: (sighs) “Yeah. Try going from writing about loss and grief to trying to write about joy. It feels dishonest.”

Host: His voice carried both weariness and defiance, as though joy were something he distrusted — a luxury for other people, not for men who had learned to look life in the teeth.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because you think joy has to erase pain to exist. But it doesn’t. It just learns how to sit beside it.”

Jack: (dryly) “You sound like a therapist in a Hallmark movie.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they have a point sometimes. Asher was terrified people wouldn’t take him seriously after writing Thirteen Reasons Why. But isn’t that what makes the Christmas story matter — the courage to believe in healing after the storm?”

Jack: “Belief feels cheap when the storm’s still going.”

Host: The window fogged deeper, the snow outside now falling in thick, unbroken silence. A small group of kids passed by, dragging a pine tree behind them, their laughter slicing through the cold like the purest sound in the world.

Jeeny followed them with her eyes, smiling.

Jeeny: “Do you know why people still love Christmas stories, Jack? It’s not the snow, not the gifts, not even the love. It’s redemption. Every good Christmas story is about redemption — about believing that light can return to the world.”

Jack: “Yeah, but Asher’s question was honest. When you’re known for tragedy, how do you switch to tenderness without lying to yourself?”

Jeeny: “You don’t switch. You expand. The writer who can speak of despair has earned the right to speak of hope.”

Jack: “You think pain gives permission?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because only those who’ve walked through darkness know how fragile light is. And that makes them tell the truth about it.”

Host: The café lights shimmered on the walls — warm and golden. Somewhere behind the counter, someone hummed along to an old carol, slightly off-key but full of sincerity.

Jack stared into his cocoa, the steam twisting upward like a question.

Jack: “You ever feel like happiness is too small a language for what we survive? Like writing a love story after pain is… betrayal?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s translation. You’re not betraying the pain, Jack — you’re giving it context. You’re saying, ‘It mattered, but it didn’t end me.’ That’s love. That’s faith disguised as narrative.”

Jack: (quietly) “And people want to read that?”

Jeeny: “They need to. Because it reminds them that broken doesn’t mean finished.”

Host: The snow outside thickened, the world narrowing into a soft white hush. A couple by the door laughed, their hands intertwined — the kind of laughter that forgets how cruel time can be.

Jack watched them, his jaw softening just slightly.

Jack: “You know what scares me most about trying to write hope? That it’ll sound fake. Like I’m pretending to understand something I’ve only ever chased.”

Jeeny: “Hope doesn’t need you to understand it. Just to witness it.”

Jack: “Witness it?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Like watching the first sunrise after months of grey. You don’t need to know why it’s beautiful. You just need to admit that it is.”

Jack: (after a pause) “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s the hardest story to tell. But the world’s starving for it.”

Host: The fireplace in the corner crackled. The warmth crawled over the cold glass of the window like an answer trying to find its way home.

Jack: “You think Asher doubted himself because he thought people wouldn’t forgive him for shifting tone — or because he couldn’t forgive himself?”

Jeeny: “Both. When you’ve built meaning out of sadness, joy feels like an imposter. But that’s the test of any artist — can you step into light without guilt?”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “And maybe that’s the truest act of courage.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Writing a Christmas story after tragedy isn’t denial. It’s survival.”

Jack: “Or rebellion.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Against despair. Against the narrative that says healing can’t coexist with hurt.”

Host: The café had grown quieter. Only the two of them remained near the window, the snow still falling in delicate, endless rhythm. The air felt softer now — less about conversation, more about surrender.

Jeeny slid the small wrapped gift across the table.

Jeeny: “Go on. Open it.”

Jack hesitated, then unwrapped it carefully. Inside was a small silver ornament — simple, round, engraved with a single word: “Begin.”

Jack stared at it, his throat tightening around unspoken things.

Jack: “You really think I can write something warm? Something… kind?”

Jeeny: “I don’t think you can. I know you must.”

Jack: (softly) “Why?”

Jeeny: “Because people who’ve known the cold are the ones who can describe warmth honestly.”

Host: The music shifted — an old Nat King Cole song whispering through the speakers. The scene outside had become a snow globe — still, glowing, eternal for a moment.

Jack placed the ornament on the table between them, the candlelight reflecting off its surface, creating twin circles of light — like two beginnings staring back.

Jack: “You know, I think I finally understand Asher’s question. He wasn’t asking if people would want to read his Christmas story. He was asking if he was allowed to write it.”

Jeeny: “And what do you think?”

Jack: “I think… we’re all allowed to change the tone.”

Jeeny: “Even after tragedy?”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Especially after tragedy.”

Host: The camera would linger there — on the two cups, the silver ornament, the snow beyond the glass. The sound of laughter, of soft music, of something unnamed returning to the heart.

Outside, the snowflakes kept falling — each one a fleeting miracle, each one proof that even the coldest world still has room for grace.

And as the light faded from the window, Asher’s words — and Jack’s revelation — echoed gently in the air:

Even those who’ve written about darkness
can learn to write about light.

Because redemption isn’t a contradiction —
it’s the sequel.