It was very hard for all of us. It's still very hard. The

Host: The night lay heavy over the city, a slow rain whispering against the windowpanes of a forgotten jazz bar tucked deep within the narrow veins of downtown. The lamplight flickered in muted gold, bending around trails of smoke that rose and twisted like lost memories. In a corner booth, two silhouettes faced one another — Jack, his jaw set and his eyes distant, and Jeeny, her hands wrapped tightly around a chipped ceramic mug, as though the warmth could hold back the coldness of remembrance.

Host: The air was thick with the soft ache of a saxophone, its tune low and hollow — a melody that carried both grief and grace. Between them, on the table, a single photograph lay under the light: a young man, smiling, eyes full of the kind of innocence that only the past can preserve.

Jeeny: “Eydie Gorme once said — ‘It was very hard for all of us. It's still very hard. The anniversary of his death just passed, and every single one of his friends, still, after all these years... it's unbelievable.’”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, soft as rainfall on glass. The words lingered between them like the last note of a song that refuses to end.

Jack: “Grief,” he said finally, his tone rough, almost hoarse. “It’s the one thing that refuses to fade. People say time heals, but all it really does is cover the wound — like dust over blood.”

Jeeny: “No,” she replied softly, shaking her head. “Time doesn’t cover it. It teaches you how to carry it. There’s a difference.”

Host: The light caught her eyes, glimmering like two candles caught between sorrow and understanding. Jack leaned back, his hands folded, his voice growing quieter — but not gentler.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic, Jeeny. But grief isn’t a poem. It’s a disease. It lingers, it eats away. And anniversaries — they’re just the cruel reminders that nothing ever really changes. The dead stay dead, and the living stay broken.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what keeps them alive, Jack? The pain? The memory? Every year when we remember them — when we still ache — we prove they’re not gone entirely.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the window, and the flame of the nearby candle quivered. The rain turned harder, a rhythmic thunder against the world outside.

Jack: “You call that living? Clinging to ghosts? I think it’s cruel, Jeeny. The dead deserve to rest. And we — we deserve to forget.”

Jeeny: “Forget?” she whispered, almost to herself. “You can’t forget someone who shaped your soul. You can’t erase love just because it hurts to remember.”

Jack: “Love, grief, memory — they’re all the same trap. You build your life around something that’s already gone, and you call it devotion. But it’s just fear. Fear of moving on.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not fear, Jack. Maybe it’s faith. Faith that something of them stays with us. Like music that keeps playing long after the musician is gone.”

Host: The saxophone in the corner seemed to echo her words, its notes winding through the smoke like ghosts of sound. Jack stared at the photo on the table, his reflection trembling in the glossy surface — a man caught between reason and remembrance.

Jack: “Faith,” he said slowly. “That’s what people cling to when they can’t accept truth. The truth is — he’s gone. Whatever you’re hearing now, it’s not him. It’s just your mind trying to fill the silence.”

Jeeny: “And what’s wrong with that silence being filled by love? When Eydie Gorme said those words, she wasn’t denying death. She was honoring the persistence of love that even time couldn’t extinguish. You think that’s weakness — but it’s the strongest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Host: Jack’s eyes lifted to hers — sharp, conflicted, almost vulnerable. The smoke curled between them like a thin veil, blurring the edge between truth and memory.

Jack: “Strength? You call clinging to pain strength?”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said firmly now. “Because to still feel — after all these years — means you haven’t become numb. You haven’t given up on the human part of you that loves beyond reason. Do you really think forgetting is the answer?”

Jack: “I think remembering keeps us prisoners. Look at her words — ‘It’s still very hard.’ After all those years. That’s not love, Jeeny. That’s a wound that never healed.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s a wound that became a part of her. We’re not meant to erase the people we’ve lost, Jack. We’re meant to carry them — in laughter, in silence, in small, unbelievable ways. That’s what makes life bearable.”

Host: The music faded to a hum, and the bartender quietly turned down the lights. Only the glow from the streetlamps seeped through the rain, sketching their faces in fragile light and shadow.

Jack: “So you’d rather live with ghosts than move on?”

Jeeny: “If the ghosts remind me of love, then yes. Because moving on doesn’t mean leaving them behind. It means walking forward with what they gave you.”

Host: A long silence followed. Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes glistening just for a second before he looked away.

Jack: “You sound like my mother,” he said finally, with a bitter laugh. “After my father died, she said she still talked to him every morning. I used to think it was madness. Now — I’m not so sure.”

Jeeny: “That’s not madness, Jack. That’s devotion. The kind that defies the logic of the world. The kind that says — ‘you mattered, and you still do.’”

Host: The rain began to slow, the sound shifting from rhythm to whisper. The city outside exhaled, quiet again. Jack’s hand reached out, almost unconsciously, brushing the edge of the photograph.

Jack: “He was your friend,” he said softly.

Jeeny: “He was everyone’s friend,” she replied, her voice breaking. “The kind who could turn a moment into music. When he died, something in all of us went silent. And yet — here we are, still hearing him.”

Host: A single tear slipped down her cheek, catching the faint light before it disappeared into the shadow. Jack didn’t look away this time.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right,” he said finally. “Maybe grief isn’t a disease after all. Maybe it’s just proof we were once alive enough to love.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she said, her smile trembling. “The pain doesn’t mean it’s wrong. It means it was real.”

Host: The camera would linger there — two people framed in the dim light, their hands resting near each other but not touching, the photograph between them a bridge made of memory and forgiveness. Outside, the rain stopped completely. A single beam of neon light broke through the window and caught the photo’s edge, reflecting in both their eyes.

Host: And in that moment, the world seemed to exhale — a quiet recognition that grief, though unbelievable, is the truest language of love. The bar, the rain, the silence — all bore witness to a simple truth:

Host: The dead are never truly gone. They live on — in every tear, every anniversary, every heart that refuses to forget.