I understand Christmas, and I understand Easter. But Halloween is

Host: The autumn evening had settled over the city like a velvet curtain of amber and ash. The streets were dotted with pumpkins, their carved faces flickering with tired candles, the scent of burning wax and fallen leaves hanging in the air. Children’s laughter echoed from the sidewalks, faint and distant, while the wind dragged at the costumes and paper ghosts strung across the windows of a small corner bakery.

Inside, warm light spilled over trays of pastries and coffee cups, a tiny refuge from the chill. Jack sat by the window, his grey eyes tracking the costumed crowd outside with quiet amusement. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her cappuccino, the foam swirling like a small galaxy of cream and heat.

Jack: “You know, Jacques Torres once said something that’s been stuck in my head. ‘I understand Christmas, and I understand Easter. But Halloween…’” — he paused, a half-smile playing at his lips — “‘…if you don’t grow with it, you never really get it. The French tried it for a while. They’re dropping it.’”

Jeeny: “That sounds like something he’d say. The man sees the world through chocolate and tradition.”

Host: Her voice was soft, but there was a glimmer in it — the kind that suggested she sensed more behind the quote than just a cultural observation.

Jack: “He’s right though. Halloween only makes sense if you’re raised with it. Otherwise, it’s just… people wearing masks for no reason, celebrating fear and candy.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a man who’s forgotten what it feels like to play.”

Jack: “Play?” — he chuckled, a dry, low sound — “No, Jeeny. I just prefer holidays that have meaning. Christmas — about family, generosity. Easter — about renewal, faith. But Halloween? It’s a theatrical excuse to pretend we’re not afraid of death.”

Host: The streetlight outside flickered, casting momentary shadows over Jack’s face. Jeeny watched him, her eyes deep and steady, as if she were seeing something he was trying not to reveal.

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe it’s how people make peace with death. The masks, the monsters, the laughter — they’re not mockery; they’re acceptance. A way to dance with the thing that terrifies us.”

Jack: “You think dressing up as a zombie is philosophical?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s human. Look at the Mexicans with Día de los Muertos — the Day of the Dead. They celebrate their ancestors, they honor the departed with food, flowers, and music. It’s joy, not fear. Isn’t that what Halloween could be — if you see it through the heart, not the head?”

Host: Jack’s fingers tapped against the table, a subtle, rhythmic protest. The coffee in his cup had gone cold, but he didn’t notice.

Jack: “You’re trying to give depth to something that’s mostly commercial. The stores start selling plastic skeletons in September, and people throw money at costumes they’ll never wear again. It’s consumerism, not culture.”

Jeeny: “Every tradition becomes commercial eventually. That doesn’t erase its roots. People need rituals, Jack — even silly ones. They anchor us. They connect us to something shared.”

Jack: “So you think Halloween connects us?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because for one night, everyone drops the pretense of being normal. They become someone — or something — else. They laugh at what scares them. They walk the line between the living and the dead, and somehow, that reminds them they’re alive.”

Host: The oven behind the counter dinged, releasing a wave of warmth and the sweet, buttery smell of fresh croissants. A pair of children, still in costume, ran past the window, their faces painted with joy and a little fear. Jack’s gaze followed them.

Jack: “You know what I think? The French were right to drop it. They’ve got refinement, art, ritual. Halloween’s too… American. Too loud, too exaggerated, too much about disguise.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what’s beautiful about it. It’s the only day we’re allowed to pretend. To unmask by masking. Even the French, with all their elegance, couldn’t keep up with that kind of chaos.”

Jack: “Unmask by masking. You’re starting to sound like a poet again.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like a man who’s afraid to admit he’s been wearing his own mask all year.”

Host: The words hit him like a gust of cold air. Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowed — not in anger, but in self-defense.

Jack: “What are you implying?”

Jeeny: “That maybe you’ve been pretending too. Just like everyone else. You call Halloween shallow, but you live it every day — hiding, performing, avoiding your own shadows.”

Jack: “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jeeny: “Don’t I? You think cynicism is truth. But sometimes it’s just another mask, Jack — a way to keep people from seeing the parts of you that still care.”

Host: The bakery had grown quiet. Even the faint music from the small radio had faded. Outside, the crowds were thinning, the moonlight spilling softly across the wet pavement.

Jack: “So you think Halloween’s not just about death, but about truth?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s about the truth we hide. Every culture has its version — a night where the veil thins. When we face what we fear, and realize it’s not as powerful as we thought.”

Jack: “And yet, the French couldn’t make it stick.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because it’s not their fear. Their stories are built on romance, not monsters. You have to grow with a myth to feel its heartbeat. That’s what Torres meant — it’s not that they failed, it’s that they never grew inside the darkness that birthed the holiday.”

Host: Jack’s expression had softened. He looked down, tracing the rim of his cup, as if he could find some forgotten truth there.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I used to love Halloween. My mom would sew me these ridiculous costumes — a vampire, a pirate, even a giant pumpkin once. But after she died, I stopped. It just… felt empty. Like all the magic had leaked out.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point, Jack. It’s not about magic that stays; it’s about the magic we keep making, even when it’s gone. That’s what tradition is — a way to remember what used to matter.”

Host: The streetlight outside buzzed faintly, the light now soft and golden. Jack’s eyes lifted, meeting Jeeny’s, and something shifted — a tiny, fragile moment of shared understanding.

Jack: “So maybe Torres was half right. Maybe you can’t understand Halloween unless you grow with it — but you can still grow back into it, if you dare.”

Jeeny: “That’s the spirit. Maybe we all need one night where we stop pretending to be perfect, and start celebrating the fact that we’re all a little haunted.”

Host: They laughed then, quietly, as a small group of teenagers passed by the window, their jack-o’-lanterns glowing like tiny hearts in the dark. The sound of their voices faded down the street, leaving behind only the echo of something innocent, something ancient.

The camera pulled back, through the glass, into the cool, crisp night — a city of masks, lights, and souls, all playing their parts, all searching for meaning in the shadows. And somewhere inside, two friends understood what Torres had meant: that some traditions can’t be imported — they must be lived, feared, and loved, from childhood to grief, from pretending to becoming.

And as the last of the pumpkins flickered out, a quiet truth remained — that every mask, no matter how dark, is just a doorway back to who we really are.