I think that there are a lot of really beautiful Christmas

Host: The evening was stitched together by the slow, patient fall of snow. Each flake seemed to drift down in deliberate grace, landing upon the cobblestones like forgotten notes of a melody the world once loved but no longer remembered. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and rain, and the faint hum of Christmas lights trembled through the streets.

A soft glow poured from a corner café, where a small fireplace hissed like a gentle secret. Inside, two figures sat across from one another — Jack and Jeeny — framed by garlands and the flicker of old holiday lights that buzzed with weary optimism.

Jack, as always, looked slightly out of place — his coat too dark, his expression too serious for the season. Jeeny had her hands wrapped around a cup of hot chocolate, her cheeks warm from the fire. The faint sound of “Jingle Bells” floated from a speaker in the ceiling — slow, soulless, metallic.

Jeeny winced.

Jeeny: “You know, Gillian Jacobs once said, ‘I think there are a lot of really beautiful Christmas carols, and then sometimes there are horrible renditions of them that are played to death in malls that make me sad. I try to avoid stores where they’re playing bad versions of Christmas songs on repeat.’ She’s right. It’s tragic how something pure can be flattened into noise.”

Jack: “You’re talking about carols like they’re saints, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “They were, once. Each one carried a story — hope, sorrow, faith. Now they’re just background music for people buying things they don’t need.”

Jack: “That’s not tragedy. That’s commerce. Everything beautiful gets monetized eventually — love, joy, even nostalgia.”

Host: The firelight flickered, dancing across their faces. Jeeny looked toward the window, watching the slow fall of snow outside. Her eyes reflected the tiny lights that lined the street, like stars trapped in glass.

Jeeny: “But isn’t it strange, Jack? These songs were born out of devotion, not marketing. Think of Silent Night — written in 1818 by a man who wanted peace, not profit. And now you hear it in elevators, cut by synthetic beats. It’s like watching faith put through a blender.”

Jack: “Faith’s been in the blender for centuries. People adapt what comforts them. Maybe these carols aren’t dying — they’re just… evolving.”

Jeeny: “Evolving? You call that elevator version of O Holy Night evolution? It’s mutilation.”

Jack: “Mutilation’s a strong word. What you’re feeling isn’t about the songs — it’s about memory. You miss the sincerity that used to come with them. But sincerity doesn’t scale. The world doesn’t have time for sacred pauses anymore.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the world should make time.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly — not from anger, but from that quiet ache that comes when something once precious becomes too familiar to be seen.

Jack leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his grey eyes sharp but not unkind.

Jack: “You think you can stop the noise, Jeeny? You can’t. People don’t want silence anymore. Silence makes them remember.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why we need songs that mean something. Christmas carols weren’t written to fill silence; they were written to heal it. Now they’re just noise to drown out the loneliness.”

Host: The wind outside pressed against the windows, shaking the glass as if to join the argument. The faint jingle of a bell sounded as someone entered — laughter spilling in briefly, then fading again.

Jeeny: “When I was a kid, we used to sing carols door to door. Not for money — just to share the warmth. My father used to say that the truest music is the kind you give away. I can’t help but think about that every time I walk into a mall at Christmas and hear someone massacring Joy to the World on a loop.”

Jack: “I get it. But maybe those bad renditions are just modern hymns. People hear them while buying gifts for their kids, and maybe, somewhere between the sales and the noise, they still feel something. Maybe imperfection is part of the ritual now.”

Jeeny: “You always defend the decay, Jack. You romanticize ruin like it’s virtue.”

Jack: “And you worship purity like it’s still possible.”

Host: The flame in the fireplace cracked, releasing a spark that vanished in the air. The tension between them felt alive — two philosophies clashing like chords that couldn’t quite resolve.

Jeeny: “Do you really think commercialization hasn’t hollowed out what these songs were meant to be?”

Jack: “I think the meaning’s still there — buried, maybe, but alive. The same way old buildings hide their history behind paint. If you scrape hard enough, you’ll still find the original design.”

Jeeny: “And what if no one scrapes anymore? What if people forget the difference between what’s real and what’s recycled?”

Jack: “Then it becomes their new real. That’s the cruel beauty of culture — it doesn’t die, it mutates.”

Host: Jeeny fell silent. Outside, a couple hurried past, their laughter echoing faintly. The snow kept falling — slow, deliberate, eternal.

Jeeny: “But what happens when music stops reminding us of who we were? When all we hear are echoes without memory?”

Jack: “Then we learn new songs. Every generation writes its own hymns — not always in tune, not always beautiful. But maybe that’s how time sings.”

Host: She looked at him — the stubborn skeptic who refused to mourn what was gone because he believed everything could be rebuilt, even meaning itself.

Jeeny: “You’d make a terrible choir member, Jack.”

Jack: “Only because I’d sing the verses no one remembers.”

Host: Her smile broke through, faint but genuine. The light from the fireplace flickered across her face, softening the lines that sadness had drawn there.

Jeeny: “Do you ever feel like we’ve replaced feeling with repetition? Like the world’s caught in a loop of pretending it’s still festive?”

Jack: “Of course. Every December, people replay the same songs, hoping they’ll summon the same warmth. But the warmth isn’t in the music, Jeeny. It’s in the people who remember what it used to mean.”

Jeeny: “So what — it’s not the carols’ fault, it’s ours?”

Jack: “Exactly. We drained them. We played them to death, as Gillian Jacobs said. But death doesn’t always mean absence. Sometimes it just means transformation.”

Host: The snow outside thickened, muffling the sounds of the street. Time felt suspended — like the world had taken a deep breath and forgotten to exhale.

Jeeny: “Then maybe next Christmas, I’ll write my own carol. Just a quiet one. No jingles, no perfection — just truth.”

Jack: “I’d listen to that. Especially if you promise not to sell it to a mall.”

Jeeny: “Only if you promise not to deconstruct it.”

Jack: “Deal.”

Host: They both laughed, their voices breaking the still air like bells cutting through fog. The fire burned lower now, its last flames curling like fading verses of an old hymn.

Jack leaned back, eyes distant but softer than before.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, maybe the problem isn’t the bad versions. Maybe it’s that we stopped singing together. We let the machines sing for us.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the answer is simple. Turn off the speakers. Start humming again.”

Host: Her words hung there — fragile, luminous — like the last note of a song that refuses to fade.

The snow fell heavier now, blanketing the world in silence so pure that even the mall music outside seemed far away.

In that quiet, Jack reached for his cup, the steam rising between them like a fragile bridge.

Jeeny: “Merry Christmas, Jack.”

Jack: “Merry Christmas, Jeeny. May your carols stay human.”

Host: The camera drifted backward through the café’s window, catching the warm glow of the fire, the two figures, and the falling snow beyond.

Outside, the city was humming — imperfect, noisy, alive — but somewhere in that noise, between bad renditions and honest silences, there was still something beautiful trying to be heard.