I was practically raised with Christmas music.

Host: The living room glowed with the soft light of Christmas — the tree heavy with ornaments, each one carrying a small memory; the faint scent of pine and cinnamon lingered in the air. Outside, the snow fell steady and soundless, blanketing the quiet street in silver.

Host: A fire crackled in the hearth, its flames moving like slow music. On the old record player in the corner, a vinyl spun gently — Nat King Cole’s “The Christmas Song” — warm, familiar, eternal.

Host: Jack sat on the sofa, a mug of whiskey-laced cocoa in hand. His eyes were distant, but the corners of his mouth held that half-smile of reluctant nostalgia. Jeeny sat on the rug before the fire, wrapping the last of the gifts — her fingers nimble, her humming soft and slightly off-key.

Jeeny: (smiling) “Brian Stokes Mitchell once said, ‘I was practically raised with Christmas music.’”

Jack: (chuckles) “Lucky him. I was raised with silence — and maybe the occasional argument over who forgot to buy the turkey.”

Jeeny: “That explains your Grinch complex.”

Jack: “Complex? No. Philosophy.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “You mean cynicism.”

Jack: “Same thing. Just sounds better in print.”

Host: She laughed, the sound light, like the shimmer of tinsel. The record player hissed softly as the next track began — Ella Fitzgerald singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

Jeeny: “You ever notice how Christmas music feels like a time machine? One note, and suddenly you’re five years old again — standing under the tree, waiting for something magical.”

Jack: “Or waiting for the wrapping paper so you can pretend to care about the socks you got.”

Jeeny: “You’re impossible.”

Jack: “Realistic.”

Jeeny: “No, jaded.”

Host: The firelight flickered over his face, softening its usual edge. He stared into the flames, watching them twist like thoughts he didn’t want to say aloud.

Jack: “You really love this season, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I do. Not for the presents or the lights — though I love those too — but for the music. It’s the only time the world sings together, even when it’s falling apart.”

Jack: “That’s the thing. Everyone pretends for a month that everything’s fine. Then January comes, and reality kicks the door back open.”

Jeeny: “Maybe pretending’s not always bad. Sometimes pretending is practicing.”

Jack: “Practicing for what?”

Jeeny: “For hope.”

Host: The snow outside grew thicker, pressing gently against the windowpane. A car passed slowly down the street, its headlights glowing like two patient angels.

Jack: “You sound like those Hallmark cards people actually believe in.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I am. But tell me — don’t you ever feel something when you hear this music?”

Jack: “Sure. Nostalgia. It’s like emotional sugar. Sweet, but bad for you if you eat too much.”

Jeeny: “You know, you talk like someone who’s never had a good Christmas.”

Jack: (after a pause) “Maybe I haven’t.”

Host: The room fell still, the only sound the soft crackle of the fire and the whisper of Ella’s voice spinning through the air. Jeeny turned, her eyes gentler now.

Jeeny: “What was it like, Jack? Growing up?”

Jack: (shrugs) “Quiet. My dad worked double shifts. Mom was tired. We’d put up the same plastic tree every year — crooked thing, smelled like dust. No music. No laughter. Just… waiting for it to be over.”

Jeeny: “That’s not Christmas, that’s survival.”

Jack: “Yeah. But sometimes survival’s the best gift you get.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you’re here. Listening.”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “Against my will.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. Maybe part of you wants to believe in it.”

Jack: “In what? Miracles?”

Jeeny: “In warmth. In belonging. In the idea that maybe — just maybe — we get to start over each year.”

Host: She reached for another record — Bing Crosby now, “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” The melody filled the room like light spilling under a closed door.

Jack: “You really think music can do that? Heal people?”

Jeeny: “I think it reminds us of what healing sounds like.”

Jack: “That’s poetic.”

Jeeny: “It’s true. Music holds memories. Even the bad ones hum differently when they’re wrapped in melody.”

Host: She leaned back against the sofa beside him, pulling a blanket around her shoulders. The firelight danced on her face — soft, gold, forgiving.

Jeeny: “When I was little, my dad would play piano every Christmas Eve. We’d all gather around, even when Mom burned the cookies and the dog stole the ham. He’d play ‘O Holy Night,’ and I’d think, ‘If I could just hold on to this sound, maybe everything will be okay.’”

Jack: “And was it?”

Jeeny: “Not always. But for those few minutes — yes.”

Host: He looked at her, the corner of his mouth lifting into that rare, unguarded smile.

Jack: “You know, maybe I was raised with Christmas music too. Just not the kind that played on a radio.”

Jeeny: “What kind then?”

Jack: “The kind you hear in someone else’s laughter — right before life gets complicated again.”

Jeeny: “That’s still music, Jack. Just quieter.”

Host: The fire burned lower, its glow more intimate now. Outside, the snow continued to fall — relentless but soft, as if the world were slowly forgiving itself.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder why Christmas music lasts so long? Decades, even centuries?”

Jack: “Because nostalgia sells?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Because it’s written in the language of hope. Even when it’s sad. Especially when it’s sad.”

Jack: “You think that’s why Brian Stokes Mitchell said what he did — being raised with it?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because Christmas music isn’t just about holidays. It’s about remembering who you are when you’re surrounded by light, even if you don’t believe in it.”

Jack: “So what does that make me? The unbeliever at the nativity?”

Jeeny: “No. Just someone standing outside, listening — which is its own kind of faith.”

Host: The record crackled as the song ended. The fire hissed quietly. The snow fell thicker now, pressing against the windows in slow, luminous sheets.

Host: For a moment, neither spoke. The silence wasn’t empty; it was full — of everything unsaid, of every old ache softened by time.

Jeeny: (softly) “Merry Christmas, Jack.”

Jack: “You too, Jeeny.” (beat) “And maybe next year… play the music a little louder.”

Host: She smiled, and outside, the world kept snowing — slow, endless, beautiful. Inside, two hearts found harmony in the quiet hum of firelight and song, and for once, cynicism gave way to something simpler — something like peace.

Host: And there, in that warm, flickering room, Brian Stokes Mitchell’s words found their echo — that being raised with Christmas music wasn’t just about carols and bells, but about learning the rhythm of hope, the melody of memory, and the soft chorus of being human enough to believe again.