I like the idea of putting your Christmas wish list up and

Host: The office was half-empty, glowing in the dim light of a December evening. The city outside shimmered with holiday lights, the kind that seemed to flicker between joy and exhaustion. Through the large glass window, snow fell in lazy, silent spirals, painting the streets below in cold white.

A Christmas tree stood in the corner — slightly crooked, its ornaments mismatched, its star tilting like it had given up on perfection. Beneath it lay a few wrapped gifts, neat but impersonal, each tagged with names in clean, corporate handwriting.

Jack sat at a desk, staring at a computer screen that glowed with a spreadsheet. His tie was loosened, his grey eyes tired. Jeeny stood by the window, holding a mug of cocoa, her breath fogging the glass. There was music playing faintly — an old Bing Crosby record, soft and distant, almost embarrassed to be heard.

Jeeny: “Bill Gates once said, ‘I like the idea of putting your Christmas wish list up and letting people share it.’”

Host: Her voice was warm, like a candle in cold air. Jack didn’t look up at first; he just gave a low chuckle, the kind that came from cynicism rather than amusement.

Jack: “That sounds exactly like something he’d say — turn even Christmas into a collaborative project.”

Jeeny: “Why not? Isn’t that the whole point of the season — sharing what you want, what you dream of?”

Jack: “Sharing dreams is easy when you can buy them, Jeeny. Most people can’t even afford the wrapping paper.”

Host: Jeeny turned from the window, her eyes bright but sad.

Jeeny: “It’s not about money, Jack. It’s about connection. About showing people what makes you feel alive — and letting them be part of it.”

Jack: “Sounds like an invitation for disappointment. Tell the world what you want, and watch how few care.”

Jeeny: “You really think so little of people?”

Jack: “No,” he said, his tone flat, “I think too realistically of them.”

Host: The heater clicked softly, its hum filling the silence. Snow continued to fall, slower now, as if listening.

Jeeny: “Do you know why I like that quote?”

Jack: “Because it’s naïve?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Because it’s hopeful. Because it assumes people want to give. That maybe someone, somewhere, will see your wish — and say, ‘I can help with that.’”

Host: Jack leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. The fluorescent light above them flickered slightly, casting soft shadows across his face.

Jack: “I used to make wish lists when I was a kid. Every Christmas. My mother would tell me to dream big — so I did. Then one year, she said, ‘We couldn’t afford any of it this time, honey.’ That was the year I stopped writing them.”

Jeeny: “You stopped wishing?”

Jack: “I stopped expecting.”

Host: The wind howled faintly against the windows, as if echoing his words. Jeeny set her mug down on the desk, sat on its edge, and looked at him — really looked.

Jeeny: “But wishes aren’t expectations, Jack. They’re intentions. They’re the sparks that remind you what your heart still wants, even when the world can’t give it to you yet.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, but it doesn’t change the math of disappointment.”

Jeeny: “It changes the meaning of it. You think the point of a wish list is getting what’s on it. But maybe it’s about revealing it — letting others see what you value. It’s vulnerability disguised as hope.”

Host: Jack’s fingers tapped lightly on the table — restless, thoughtful. Outside, the snow reflected the city lights, turning the street into a quiet river of gold and silver.

Jack: “You think Bill Gates writes down wishes for anything? He’s got the world at his fingertips.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why he said it. Maybe he’s learned that even when you have everything, sharing your wants — or your dreams — still connects you to people. It’s not the having, Jack. It’s the offering.”

Host: The music from the record player crackled softly. The song changed — Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. Jeeny closed her eyes for a moment, listening.

Jeeny: “You know what my wish list would have this year?”

Jack: “A yacht. A cabin in Norway. A miracle?”

Jeeny: (laughing softly) “No. Just a night where people remember how to be kind. Where no one’s alone.”

Jack: “That’s not a wish list — that’s a fairy tale.”

Jeeny: “And yet every December, the world pretends to believe it for a few weeks. Isn’t that something?”

Host: The lights from the tree shimmered across the office, reflecting on the windows like tiny galaxies. Jack watched them dance in her eyes, and for a brief second, the hardness in him flickered — like thawing ice.

Jack: “You think sharing wishes actually changes anything?”

Jeeny: “It already has. Look at charity drives, wish trees, online giving lists. Millions of people sharing small pieces of hope — and strangers answering. That’s how magic sneaks back into a tired world.”

Jack: “Magic through logistics. That’s a very modern Christmas miracle.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack — it’s empathy with a Wi-Fi connection.”

Host: Jack couldn’t help but smile, the first genuine one in days. He looked down at the keyboard, then at Jeeny.

Jack: “So what would you put on your list — besides world peace and warm socks?”

Jeeny: “A handwritten letter from someone who means it.”

Jack: “That’s all?”

Jeeny: “That’s everything.”

Host: Her words settled like snow — quiet, unassuming, but heavy with meaning.

Jack: “Alright, Jeeny. What if I made a wish list?”

Jeeny: “Then I’d read it.”

Jack: “And if it’s just empty pages?”

Jeeny: “Then I’d remind you that blank pages are still full of potential.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked toward midnight. The office lights dimmed automatically, leaving only the soft glow of the tree and the city beyond.

Jack turned his monitor off. His reflection stared back at him in the black glass — tired, older, uncertain.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about what you get. Maybe it’s about letting someone see what you need.”

Jeeny: “That’s the real gift. Letting yourself be known.”

Host: She stood, walked over to the window again, and pressed her hand against the glass, leaving a faint print that caught the light.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe we should make a wish list for the world — not for things, but for moments. More laughter. Fewer walls. More people who actually listen.”

Jack: “And who’d read it?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Anyone who still believes in December.”

Host: A soft snowflake drifted down, landing against the windowpane, melting instantly. Jack stood and joined her at the glass. The city lights below looked like stars that had fallen to earth.

Jack: “You ever think it’s strange? The whole world pretending — for a few days — that everything’s okay?”

Jeeny: “It’s not pretending. It’s remembering. That it could be.”

Host: Jack exhaled slowly. The tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small scrap of paper, and handed it to her.

Jeeny unfolded it. It read, in messy handwriting:
“Wish: To start believing again.”

Jeeny: (softly) “That’s the only wish worth sharing.”

Host: The snow fell harder now, blanketing the city in quiet surrender. The office, once cold and impersonal, felt warm — not from heaters or lights, but from the fragile warmth of two souls daring to believe again.

Jack poured them both a drink — not whiskey this time, but something sweeter, softer.

Jeeny raised her glass.

Jeeny: “To shared wishes.”

Jack: “To the possibility they might come true.”

Host: Outside, the world seemed gentler. The tree lights twinkled like promises not yet broken. The music played on, soft and imperfect, just like everything that mattered.

And in that moment, for reasons neither of them could explain, the simple act of sharing a wish felt like enough — like a small, shining proof that even in a world built on logic, hope still had Wi-Fi.