I love the excitement, the childlike spirit of innocence and just

Host: The snow fell slowly, each flake spinning like a memory that refused to settle. The streetlights glowed in soft amber, painting the sidewalk in honeyed warmth against the cold blue night. Inside a small corner café, bells jingled as the door swung open. The air smelled of cinnamon, coffee, and old wood. A Christmas song hummed faintly from the radio, its melody mixing with the murmur of late-night voices.

Jack sat by the window, his hands wrapped around a steaming cup, his eyes tracing the snowfall. He looked tired, but there was a quiet steadiness in the way he breathed—like a man used to carrying silence. Across from him, Jeeny smiled, her fingers tapping the rim of her cup. The light caught the reflection of her eyes, making them sparkle like firelight.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… Hillary Scott once said, ‘I love the excitement, the childlike spirit of innocence and just about everything that goes along with Christmas.’”

Jack: smirking faintly “That’s sweet. But that’s what people say when they want to forget the real world for a while.”

Host: The wind pressed against the glass, and a soft creak came from the old wood floor. Jeeny leaned in slightly, her voice gentle but resolute.

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s what people say when they still believe in goodness, Jack. When they still remember what it feels like to be innocent, even for a moment.”

Jack: “Innocent?” He let out a quiet laugh. “There’s no innocence left in this world, Jeeny. Not when stores start playing carols in October, not when companies make billions selling hope in red boxes.”

Jeeny: “But that’s not all Christmas is. You’re seeing the surface. The lights, the ads, the fake smiles. But beneath all that, people still gather, still forgive, still remember to love.”

Host: A couple at the next table began to laugh, their voices filling the room like a soft song. Jack glanced at them, his expression unreadable, then looked back at Jeeny.

Jack: “You think love survives in all that chaos? Maybe for a few hours. Then the bills come, the arguments, the hangovers. People go back to being who they are.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what makes it beautiful? That we still try? Even knowing it won’t last forever?”

Host: Jack shifted, his shoulders tense, his grey eyes catching the flicker of the candlelight. He seemed to search for something behind her words, as though they challenged a part of him he had long buried.

Jack: “You’re talking about a feeling, not a fact. You can’t measure innocence, you can’t sustain it. It’s like trying to hold smoke.”

Jeeny: “You can’t measure a song either, Jack, but it still moves people. During the war, even soldiers on opposite sides stopped fighting on Christmas Eve. Remember that? 1914 — the Christmas truce. They sang, they shared bread, they even played football together. For one night, humanity remembered itself.”

Jack: quietly “And then they went back to killing each other.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But for that one night, they remembered what it meant to be human. That’s the point. Innocence isn’t about perfection. It’s about the choice to still believe, despite knowing better.”

Host: A moment of silence settled between them, heavy yet strangely tender. Outside, a child’s laughter echoed as a snowball hit a car window, and the sound drew a faint smile from Jeeny.

Jack: “You talk like faith is enough to fix everything. But faith doesn’t feed the hungry, Jeeny. It doesn’t keep the lights on.”

Jeeny: “Neither does cynicism. At least faith gives people the strength to keep trying. Tell me, Jack—when was the last time you felt… excited by anything? Like a child again?”

Host: Jack’s hand paused midway to his cup. A faint shiver crossed his expression, like a ghost brushing past his memory.

Jack: “Maybe when my father took me to the woods to cut a Christmas tree. I was eight. He let me swing the axe—I thought I was saving the world.” He smiled bitterly. “Then I grew up and realized the tree dies anyway.”

Jeeny: “But you still remember it. So it must have meant something. That moment, that joy, that connection—that’s what Hillary meant. The excitement, the childlike spirit—it’s not about pretending the world’s perfect. It’s about touching what’s pure, even if it’s fleeting.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, filled with a fragile warmth. Jack’s eyes softened, as though a frosted window had started to thaw.

Jack: “You think we can live off fleeting things?”

Jeeny: “No. But we can live through them. The way a song doesn’t last forever, yet it stays with you. The way snow melts, but the memory of it stays bright. Christmas is like that—a reminder that the heart still beats beneath the noise.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked softly. A waitress refilled their cups, the steam curling between them like a veil. The café glowed with the amber pulse of lamplight, and outside, snowflakes continued their quiet descent.

Jack: “You talk like you need to believe this, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “I do. Because if we stop believing in simple goodness, we start dying inside. I’ve seen it happen—people so consumed by cynicism they can’t feel anything anymore.”

Jack: “And you think I’m one of them?”

Jeeny: “I think you’ve forgotten what it feels like to believe.”

Host: The words hung in the air, sharp but gentle, like the edge of a snowflake. Jack’s jaw tightened, and for the first time, his voice carried something fragile.

Jack: “Maybe I have. Maybe it’s easier that way. When you stop expecting miracles, you stop getting disappointed.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you stop seeing them. Maybe they still happen—you’ve just stopped noticing.”

Host: The song on the radio changed. A children’s choir began to sing, their voices bright and clear, filling the room with a light that seemed almost tangible. Jack looked up, his eyes distant, drawn to something only he could see.

Jack: “You know… when I was a kid, I used to stay up all night waiting for Santa. I’d stare at the fireplace until my eyes burned. I really believed he’d come.”

Jeeny: “And when you woke up, was the magic gone?”

Jack: “No… my dad had eaten the cookies. He’d even left a note signed ‘Santa’. I think that was the last time I truly believed in something without doubt.”

Jeeny: softly “Then maybe it’s time you believe again. Not in Santa—but in people. In moments. In the small, quiet magic that still happens between us.”

Host: Jack’s hand moved across the table, almost unconsciously. His fingers brushed hers, just barely. The light flickered, and for a second, the world seemed to pause.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe innocence isn’t lost. Maybe it’s just… asleep.”

Jeeny: “And Christmas is the dream that wakes it.”

Host: The snow outside had stopped. The sky opened, revealing a faint glow of stars above the city roofs. Inside the café, the candle between them burned lower, but its flame held steady—small, bright, and unwavering.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack, the childlike spirit isn’t naïve. It’s brave. It takes courage to stay kind in a world that teaches you not to be.”

Jack: “And maybe it takes love to remind you how.”

Host: They sat in silence, the music fading, their breaths rising in soft curls against the glass. Outside, a child ran past with a red scarf, laughing, leaving footprints that glowed in the lamp light.

The night was still, but something in the air had changed—a faint pulse of warmth, a reminder that hope, though fragile, was still alive.

Jack’s voice broke the silence, low and steady: “Merry Christmas, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Merry Christmas, Jack.”

Host: The scene closed with the candlelight trembling on their faces, like two souls rediscovering a forgotten truth. The snow began again—slow, gentle, endless—a curtain falling over a world quietly learning how to believe once more.