That is what Christmas should be about, I think - togetherness

Host: The snow fell in slow, silent spirals, each flake catching the faint glow of the streetlights like tiny embers of a forgotten dream. Inside a narrow apartment above a bookshop, the room was lit with the soft flicker of candles and the gentle hum of an old record player spinning Bing Crosby. Pine needles glistened on a small tree standing crooked in the corner, its ornaments mismatched but warm with memory.

Jack sat cross-legged on the floor, a half-finished cup of coffee beside him, his hands absently folding a paper star that refused to stay together. Across from him, Jeeny was untangling a string of lights, her brow furrowed, her lips curved into the faintest smile. Outside, the city was quiet, as if holding its breath for Christmas.

Jeeny: “Billy Howle once said, ‘That is what Christmas should be about, I think—togetherness and playfulness. It’s like a game.’ I love that. Don’t you?”

Jack: “A game, huh?”

Host: His voice carried that familiar edge—part amusement, part skepticism, the kind that hinted at deeper wounds.

Jack: “You make it sound so innocent. Togetherness and playfulness—like they’re just waiting in a box with the decorations. For most people, Christmas is a performance. A polite truce between people who barely talk the rest of the year.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why it matters—to try again, even for a night. To play like we used to when life wasn’t so heavy.”

Jack: “Play? You mean pretending? Because that’s what adults do at Christmas—pretend we’re fine, pretend we believe, pretend we’re not terrified of how fast time moves.”

Host: The firelight danced across his face, revealing the faint lines of exhaustion beneath his eyes. Jeeny watched him quietly, her hands pausing mid-motion as the string of lights slipped through her fingers.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who stopped believing in magic a long time ago.”

Jack: “Magic? Magic’s just the name we give to the things we can’t fix.”

Jeeny: “Or the things we can’t explain.”

Jack: “Same thing.”

Host: The record crackled softly, the melody of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” drifting through the air. Jeeny rose slowly, her bare feet padding across the old wooden floor as she adjusted an ornament shaped like a bird, its wings painted gold.

Jeeny: “Do you remember being a kid, Jack? The night before Christmas, when everything felt possible? When even silence had a heartbeat?”

Jack: “I remember waiting for my dad to come home. He never did.”

Host: The words came out flat, but the silence that followed trembled like a fragile note in the dark.

Jeeny: “I’m sorry.”

Jack: “Don’t be. It taught me early that Christmas isn’t about what’s under the tree—it’s about what’s missing around it.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point Billy Howle was making. Christmas is a game not because it’s fake, but because it invites us to play again—to remember how to be together, even if the rules keep changing.”

Jack: “You make it sound like grief can be solved with tinsel.”

Jeeny: “Not solved—softened. Sometimes play is the only way we know how to keep from breaking.”

Host: She sat back down beside him, her shoulder brushing his. The contact was small but real—like the brief touch of warmth between two cold hands.

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “Completely. Look at the world, Jack. We’re drowning in seriousness—politics, fear, cynicism. But when we play, even for a moment, we remember that we’re not just workers, or voters, or broken people—we’re still capable of joy. That’s revolutionary.”

Jack: “Revolutionary joy? You’re poetic tonight.”

Jeeny: “Don’t mock it. Think about the Christmas Truce of 1914—soldiers stopped killing each other to sing carols and play soccer in the middle of a war. For one day, they remembered they were human before they were enemies. That’s playfulness, Jack. That’s togetherness.”

Host: The flames in the fireplace shifted, crackling louder, as if answering her. The image hung in the air—mud-soaked soldiers kicking a ball across no man’s land under a frozen moon.

Jack: “And the next day, they went back to killing. Your little miracle lasted one night.”

Jeeny: “But it happened. That’s what matters. Even in the darkest places, people still chose to play. That means something.”

Jack: “It means we’re sentimental creatures who can’t handle reality without giving it a pretty mask.”

Jeeny: “Or that we’re brave enough to make beauty out of the unbearable.”

Host: Jack looked down at the paper star in his hands. It was torn at one edge, its folds uneven, but he kept turning it, tracing the creases as if searching for a pattern that made sense.

Jack: “You think pretending we’re happy makes us happy?”

Jeeny: “No. I think pretending we’re connected reminds us we still can be. That’s what play does—it tricks the heart into remembering how to open.”

Host: For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The record had reached its end, leaving only the soft crackle of the needle. Outside, a car passed, tires hissing on wet pavement.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I used to build little cities out of snow. Streets, houses, people—all of it. And every morning, they’d be gone. Melted, trampled, erased.”

Jeeny: “But you built them again, didn’t you?”

Jack: “…Yeah.”

Jeeny: “That’s Christmas, Jack. The same fragile hope, rebuilt every year.”

Host: The candles flickered, their flames bending as if the room itself was breathing. Jeeny leaned over, picked up the fallen star, and pressed it gently into his palm.

Jeeny: “Play with me, just this once. Let’s see if we can make this star stay together.”

Jack: “It’s just paper.”

Jeeny: “And yet we’re treating it like it matters. That’s the game.”

Host: Jack’s lips curved into a faint, reluctant smile. His hands moved beside hers, folding, pressing, creasing—the motions careful, almost reverent. When they finished, the star still wasn’t perfect, but it held.

Jeeny: “See? Togetherness.”

Jack: “And playfulness.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The fire popped, sending up a brief spark that danced and vanished. For the first time that night, Jack laughed—quietly, awkwardly, like someone rediscovering an old melody.

Jack: “You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe the point isn’t that Christmas fixes anything—it’s that it lets us pretend long enough to remember we want to.”

Jeeny: “Pretend long enough to believe.”

Jack: “And believe long enough to care.”

Host: She smiled, the kind of smile that warms even the coldest corners of a room. The snow outside had thickened, muffling the world in white. They sat together on the floor, surrounded by light, music, and a fragile paper star that somehow refused to fall apart.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack… Christmas isn’t about perfection. It’s about participation. We show up, we play, we forgive a little, and we keep folding stars that might not hold—but we fold them anyway.”

Jack: “It’s like a game.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. One where the rules don’t matter as long as we’re still playing together.”

Host: The camera would pull back now—the window, glowing softly against the dark street, two silhouettes bathed in golden light, laughter faintly echoing as the snow fell thicker.

And outside, the world—cold, broken, beautiful—kept turning, as if listening to their quiet lesson: that togetherness and playfulness, even fragile, even fleeting, are the closest thing we have to grace.