My mom loved my Christmas music, so I did an awful lot of it!

Host: The recording studio smelled of dust, coffee, and old wood — the kind of scent that carried memory in its grain. A single lamp burned beside the microphone, casting a golden circle of light in the otherwise dim room. The snow outside fell thick and quiet, brushing against the fogged windows in soft, rhythmic whispers.

Jack sat on the worn piano bench, his hands resting motionless on the keys. The faint echo of a melody still hung in the air — something unfinished, fragile. Jeeny stood behind the glass of the sound booth, holding a yellowing piece of paper with a quote written across it in looping handwriting:

“My mom loved my Christmas music, so I did an awful lot of it.” — Johnny Mathis

She stepped into the room, the door closing behind her with a soft sigh.

Jeeny: “You’ve been playing that same line for half an hour. It’s beautiful… but it sounds like you’re afraid to finish it.”

Jack: “Maybe I am.”

Host: His voice was low, carrying that familiar mix of pride and weariness. The light caught the silver in his hair — a quiet testament to years spent chasing perfection in sound and silence.

Jeeny: “You know, Mathis said he kept making Christmas songs because his mother loved them. Sometimes that’s reason enough to keep doing something — love.”

Jack: “Love’s not much of a business plan.”

Jeeny: “Neither is grief, but you’ve built a whole life around it.”

Host: The air between them tightened — not with anger, but with truth too raw to ignore. Outside, the wind pressed against the windowpane, as if trying to listen.

Jack: “You really think that quote’s about love? Sounds like guilt to me. Like a son trying to keep his mother alive in the only way he knows how.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both are true. Sometimes love and guilt share the same melody.”

Jack: “You always turn everything into poetry.”

Jeeny: “And you always hide behind irony.”

Host: Jack pressed a few keys — slow, hesitant notes that trembled in the air like memories half-remembered.

Jeeny: “You used to play differently. Softer. Like you were talking to someone.”

Jack: “That someone’s gone.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. Maybe she’s right here — in the notes you won’t finish.”

Host: Jack’s fingers froze above the piano. For a moment, the room held its breath.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my mom used to sit by the radio every Christmas Eve. Mathis was her favorite. She’d hum along, off-key, like she was singing directly to heaven. After she died, I stopped listening to Christmas music altogether. Too much memory in it.”

Jeeny: “That’s the thing about memory — it doesn’t care if you’re ready. It plays anyway.”

Jack: “So what? I’m supposed to start writing jingles and pretend it doesn’t hurt?”

Jeeny: “No. You’re supposed to let it hurt differently. Turn it into something beautiful.”

Jack: “That’s what artists say when they’ve forgotten what grief really feels like.”

Jeeny: “No, that’s what survivors say when they finally start breathing again.”

Host: The piano light flickered, and a shadow crossed Jack’s face — the shadow of a man standing at the threshold between silence and song.

Jeeny: “You know, Mathis didn’t just sing Christmas songs because they sold. He sang them because they reminded him of warmth, family, belonging — things the world takes for granted. Maybe his mother wasn’t just his reason — maybe she was his rhythm.”

Jack: “So you’re saying I should keep chasing ghosts because they make for good music?”

Jeeny: “I’m saying you should stop running from the ones who made you who you are.”

Host: Jeeny moved closer, her footsteps soft on the wooden floor. The room seemed to shrink around them — the world outside reduced to snow, wind, and memory.

Jeeny: “Why do you think you keep coming back to this piano every winter, Jack? You tell yourself it’s work — but I think it’s her voice you’re trying to hear again.”

Jack: “You think she’d even recognize me now?”

Jeeny: “She’d recognize your heart before your face.”

Host: A faint smile flickered across his lips — fragile, but real. He looked down at the keys, brushing them lightly with his fingertips, as though afraid they’d break.

Jack: “You ever wonder what it’s like for someone like Mathis — to have the whole world remember you for something so soft? In a world that celebrates noise, he made a career out of gentleness.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s why he lasted. Because the world secretly needs gentleness — even when it pretends it doesn’t.”

Jack: “You think people still care about songs like his? About simplicity?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not on the charts. But in kitchens, in cars, in lonely apartments where people hang tinsel just to feel something — yes. People care.”

Host: The piano filled the silence again — this time not hesitant, but searching. The melody was slow, full of longing and warmth, like snow falling through candlelight.

Jeeny watched quietly, her eyes soft, her hands clasped as if in prayer.

Jack: “You know, she used to tell me the same thing. Said I played too much like I was proving something, not feeling it. Said music was supposed to breathe.”

Jeeny: “Then breathe, Jack.”

Host: He did. One long inhale. One trembling exhale. Then he began to play.

The notes came differently now — no longer sharp, no longer perfect. They came like conversation, like forgiveness, like love rediscovered.

Jeeny: “That’s it. That’s what she would’ve wanted to hear.”

Jack: “You really think so?”

Jeeny: “I don’t think — I know. You can feel it, can’t you?”

Jack: “Yeah. It’s like she’s right here.”

Jeeny: “Then don’t stop. Not until you’ve said everything you couldn’t before.”

Host: The melody swelled, filling the small studio like sunlight through old glass. Jack’s eyes shimmered — not with tears, but with something older, something sacred.

Jack: “It’s strange. The older I get, the less I care about applause. I just want to make something my mom would’ve smiled at.”

Jeeny: “That’s not strange. That’s wisdom.”

Jack: “Or regression.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s returning home.”

Host: The last note lingered, trembling in the air before dissolving into silence. The room seemed lighter now, the kind of silence that follows completion, not absence.

Jack leaned back, staring at the ceiling — his face calm, almost peaceful.

Jack: “You know… I think Mathis understood something most of us forget. That sometimes the simplest songs — the ones born from love, from home — are the ones that live the longest.”

Jeeny: “Because they speak to what’s timeless.”

Jack: “And what’s that?”

Jeeny: “The need to be remembered by someone who loved us.”

Host: A single tear escaped down Jack’s cheek, catching in the dim lamplight. He didn’t wipe it away. He let it fall — like the last note of a song written years too late.

Jeeny reached for the notebook and tore out the page with the quote, pinning it above the piano.

Jeeny: “Now you won’t forget why you play.”

Jack: “I won’t.”

Host: Outside, the snow thickened — soft flakes floating under the pale light of the streetlamp. From somewhere far beyond the window, faint music drifted — a Christmas melody, timeless and gentle, the kind that carries warmth through decades.

Jeeny: “You should finish that piece, Jack.”

Jack: “I think I just did.”

Host: The lamp flickered once, then steadied.

And as Jack’s hands rested quietly on the keys — not to play, but to feel — the studio filled with a silence that wasn’t empty but full, alive with memory and love.

Because sometimes, as Johnny Mathis knew, the best reason to create isn’t fame or fortune —

It’s simply because someone you loved once smiled when you did.