My parents were over the moon when I had some success with

Host: The snow fell in slow, deliberate flakes, drifting through the pale light of a flickering streetlamp. The town was almost silent, the kind of quiet that feels like a memory—soft, nostalgic, full of ghosts in warm coats. From inside a small diner at the corner of Maple and 3rd, the muffled hum of an old jukebox filled the room, playing a crackling tune of Johnny Mathis’s “When a Child Is Born.”

Host: Jack sat by the window, his hands wrapped around a chipped mug of coffee, steam curling like dreams from its rim. His grey eyes were distant, following the snowflakes as they melted on the glass. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea slowly, the spoon clinking softly, rhythmically, like a faint heartbeat beneath the song.

Host: The diners were few tonight—an old man reading a newspaper, a couple whispering by the door, the cook humming behind the counter. But there was something different about this night: an unspoken tenderness in the air, the kind that only December brings—the month where even pain wears a coat of light.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “You ever notice how Christmas songs make even the loneliest people hum along?”

Jack: (without looking up) “They make people nostalgic, not happy.”

Jeeny: “Nostalgia is happiness, just seen from far away.”

Jack: “Or regret in disguise.”

Host: The song shifted to another—‘It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas’—the kind that slips under the skin and stirs up childhood. Jeeny’s eyes softened as she listened.

Jeeny: “Johnny Mathis once said something beautiful—‘My parents were over the moon when I had some success with Christmas songs because that was the time of the year that meant so much to them. They were able to see their loved ones, and it was great to hear their son's voice on the radio while they visited.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Of course he’d say that. Who wouldn’t be happy hearing their voice on the radio during the holidays? Success has a way of making everything sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “It wasn’t about success, Jack. It was about his parents—the people who shaped his world before anyone else knew his name.”

Jack: “Parents are sentimental creatures. They attach meaning to things we outgrow. Christmas, songs, holidays… they hold onto rituals because that’s all they have left.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they hold on because we let go too easily.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice was soft, but it carried a quiet ache, the kind that lingers after years of leaving home too soon. The light from the diner’s neon sign flickered across her face, painting her expression in alternating shades of glow and shadow.

Jack: “You think sentiment keeps the world together?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Sentiment, memory, love—they’re the glue. Without them, all you have are people moving through time like ghosts.”

Jack: “Or survivors. People who don’t need illusions.”

Jeeny: “You call love an illusion?”

Jack: “Sometimes. It’s just biology dressed in poetry.”

Jeeny: (leaning forward, eyes fierce) “Then why does it hurt when you lose it? Biology doesn’t break hearts, Jack. Memory does. Meaning does.”

Host: The air between them trembled, as though the song itself had stepped aside to make room for their words. Outside, a car passed, its headlights sweeping through the snow, carving brief silver paths across their faces.

Jack: “You know what I think when I hear those old Christmas songs? I think of manipulation. All that fake warmth and forced cheer. People smile because they’re told to.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they smile because it’s the one time they give themselves permission to.”

Jack: “You really believe people are sincere in December?”

Jeeny: “I think sincerity and pain can share the same song.”

Host: Jack’s gaze dropped, the faint flame in his eyes dimming. He rubbed the side of his cup, lost in a memory too faint to name.

Jack: “My old man used to play those records. Not because he loved Christmas, but because Mom did. He’d sit in silence, pretending to read while she danced around the kitchen. After she died, he never played them again.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe he couldn’t bear the sound of her ghost.”

Jack: (bitter smile) “Or maybe he realized the season was just a lie without her.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. The lie was thinking it was about the season. It was always about her.”

Host: A long silence. The jukebox clicked, hesitated, then rolled into another melody—this time slower, almost haunting. Jeeny’s eyes shimmered in the low light, and for the first time that night, Jack looked up—really looked.

Jack: “So you think songs like that—like Mathis’s—matter?”

Jeeny: “I think they keep people connected. They remind us where we came from, who we loved, who loved us.”

Jack: “Even if those people are gone?”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: Outside, the snow was thicker now, layering the streets, muffling the world into silence. The neon sign buzzed faintly, its red letters reflected in the window glass beside them. The diners had all left, except for them and the cook, who now wiped down the counter, humming along to the music.

Jack: “It’s funny. I’ve spent years running from that kind of thing—sentiment, holidays, even music like this. It felt like weakness. But sitting here, I don’t know… maybe it’s not weakness. Maybe it’s just… remembering.”

Jeeny: “That’s all memory asks of us—to remember without shame.”

Jack: “But it’s heavy, Jeeny. The older you get, the heavier it gets.”

Jeeny: “That’s because love doesn’t vanish, it collects. Every year adds another layer. Like snow.”

Host: Jack chuckled quietly, the sound more exhale than laughter. His eyes softened, the hard lines of his face gentled by the reflection of light and falling snow. He took a slow sip of his coffee, its bitterness grounding him in the moment.

Jack: “You know, Mathis’s story—it’s almost painfully pure. Singing songs that made his parents proud, their hearts lifted just hearing his voice. It’s... rare. Too pure for this world.”

Jeeny: “That purity is the point. It’s what we all chase—the dream that the people who raised us get to see us shine before the lights go out.”

Jack: “You sound like you’ve lived your life trying to give someone that moment.”

Jeeny: (whispering) “I did. But they never heard my song.”

Host: The words hung between them like snowflakes refusing to land. For a moment, neither spoke. The jukebox crackled, the needle skipping, the song breaking—then catching again.

Host: Jeeny’s eyes were distant now, filled with quiet sorrow. Jack reached across the table, his hand resting briefly over hers—a simple gesture, wordless, fragile, but real.

Jack: “Then sing it now. Even if no one’s listening.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly through tears) “Maybe that’s what we’re all doing, Jack. Singing in the dark, hoping someone’s heart still remembers the tune.”

Host: The diner light flickered once, then steadied. The snow outside turned the world to silver. The cook turned off the jukebox, and the last note of the song lingered like a sigh.

Host: They sat in silence, the kind that doesn’t need words—just shared warmth, old ghosts, and the faint hum of a world still turning.

Host: Jack looked out one last time at the snow-covered street, then back at Jeeny, his eyes softer, his voice low.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Christmas really is—a moment when someone somewhere hears your voice, and remembers you’re still there.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And maybe love is just that—a song someone once heard, and never forgot.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. The neon sign outside went dark. Only the snow, the stars, and the echo of a Christmas melody remained.

Host: And in that fragile darkness, they sat—two souls warmed by memory—while the world outside turned slowly under the soft, eternal light of December.