I love singing our Christmas songs every chance we get. It's

Host: The city was strung with lights, each bulb like a small heartbeat against the cold. Snowflakes fell with deliberate grace, drifting between the streetlamps and shadows, dissolving on black coats and red scarves. Inside a small recording studio near the old district, a soft hum of equipment filled the room, blending with the faint echo of laughter.

Jack sat near the piano, his hands resting loosely on the keys, eyes half-lidded, the flicker of the Christmas lights dancing across his face. Jeeny stood by the microphone, a long wool sweater draped around her, her dark hair brushing her shoulders.

The hour was late. The session was nearly done. But neither wanted to leave.

Jeeny: “You know, Kirstin Maldonado once said, ‘I love singing our Christmas songs every chance we get. It's really cute.’”

Host: She said it lightly, with a soft smile, but there was a trace of melancholy underneath—as if the innocence of the words stirred something deeper.

Jack: “Cute?” — he smirked, striking a single, off-key note on the piano. “You call that philosophy, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Why not? Even cute things can hold meaning.”

Jack: “Sure. If you’re five.”

Host: His tone carried the usual sarcasm, but the tiredness behind it softened the edge.

Jeeny: “You always do that—brush off joy like it’s a cheap melody. Maybe that’s why you never sing with me.”

Jack: “Because I don’t pretend the world’s wrapped in ribbon and bells. You know how fake it all gets around Christmas—people smiling through debt, singing while they’re drowning in loneliness. What’s so beautiful about pretending?”

Jeeny: “It’s not pretending, Jack. It’s remembering. That’s what music does. It helps us remember the warmth we lost.”

Host: The lights from the small tree in the corner flickered as if in rhythm with her words. The studio seemed to breathe—silent, then alive again with their voices.

Jack: “You’re saying singing ‘Jingle Bells’ is some kind of spiritual exercise?”

Jeeny: “Not the song itself. The act. The gathering. When people sing together, even badly, they share breath, they synchronize. That’s not trivial—it’s ancient.”

Jack: “You sound like you’re quoting a sociology textbook.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m speaking from the heart. My mother used to sing carols every year, even when we could barely afford gifts. She said the songs reminded her of hope—that the world could still be kind, even when it wasn’t.”

Host: Jack’s fingers froze above the keys, his eyes flickering—not disbelief this time, but memory.

Jack: “My old man hated Christmas music. Said it was commercial poison. He’d turn off the radio every time a carol came on.”

Jeeny: “And did that make you happier?”

Jack: “No. But it made him feel honest.”

Jeeny: “Honest isn’t the same as whole, Jack.”

Host: The tension rose gently, like a note held a little too long—fragile, but resonant.

Jack: “You think singing about joy makes it real? People drown in illusions. They sing to forget the truth.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe they sing to survive it.”

Host: The air thickened between them, filled with the quiet hum of the amplifier and the faint buzz of Christmas lights.

Jack: “Survive it how? By pretending that love and peace are just around the corner, that the world suddenly redeems itself in December?”

Jeeny: “No, by creating a corner where those things do exist, even for a moment. Isn’t that what art is, Jack? A space to breathe in a suffocating world?”

Host: She took a step closer, her voice lowering into something intimate.

Jeeny: “When I sing those songs, I’m not thinking of perfection. I’m thinking of the people who’ve forgotten how to smile. I want to give them something—something small, maybe ‘cute,’ but still real.”

Jack: “You think a song can save someone?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Maybe not from the world, but from themselves. Haven’t you ever felt that? One lyric, one melody—suddenly you’re not alone anymore.”

Host: Jack looked down at the keys, his reflection trembling in the black lacquer. His voice softened, almost a whisper.

Jack: “When I was a kid, my sister used to play ‘Silent Night’ on this old keyboard we had. It was broken—half the notes didn’t work. But she’d still play it every Christmas. After she died, I couldn’t stand to hear it. Every note felt like a ghost.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why you still play. To bring her back, even if you won’t admit it.”

Host: He exhaled sharply, a sound between a laugh and a sigh.

Jack: “You really believe music can resurrect the dead?”

Jeeny: “No. But it can resurrect the parts of us they loved.”

Host: For a moment, neither spoke. The studio filled with quiet—the kind of silence that carries weight. Then Jack pressed a few tentative keys, and the first fragile notes of “Silent Night” floated into the room.

Jeeny didn’t move. She listened. Then, without a word, she began to sing.

Her voice was gentle but steady, warm against the cold edges of his piano. Each word carried the weight of memory, the softness of something once lost but never forgotten.

Host: As she sang, Jack’s hands grew more certain, the melody shaping itself into something living. His eyes lifted, meeting hers—past argument, past cynicism.

Jeeny: (singing softly) “Sleep in heavenly peace…”

Jack: “You really mean it, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Every time.”

Host: The lights shimmered faintly; outside, a single car passed, its tires whispering through snow. The moment stretched—tender, unguarded.

Jack: “You know, I used to think joy was for people who hadn’t seen the world yet. But now… maybe it’s for those who’ve seen it and still choose to sing.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why it’s cute. Because it’s brave.”

Host: Jack laughed, a low, genuine sound that startled even him.

Jack: “You managed to turn ‘cute’ into a philosophy.”

Jeeny: “It always was. You just didn’t listen close enough.”

Host: The song faded, leaving behind the faint buzz of the lights and the throb of something unspoken—an old ache turned into quiet peace.

Jack: “Maybe next time, I’ll sing with you.”

Jeeny: “That’s all I ever wanted.”

Host: She smiled, and in that small, warm curve of her lips, something shifted inside him—something like forgiveness.

Outside, the snow had stopped. The city gleamed like a quiet orchestra of light and memory.

Inside, two people sat in the soft afterglow of a song that didn’t promise to fix the world, but managed, somehow, to make it gentler.

Host: And as the final note faded, so did the distance between them—until all that remained was the simple, miraculous beauty of a shared breath… and a “cute” Christmas song that suddenly felt sacred.