The first story I can remember writing, that I truly set down on

Host: The snow had begun to fall again — slow, steady, like ash from a quiet heaven. Through the frost-coated window of the small-town bookshop, the world looked softer, older. Inside, the air smelled of paper, coffee, and the faint memory of ink. A string of dim lights hung across the ceiling, each bulb glowing like a heartbeat in the winter air.

Jack stood near the back shelf, his hands buried in his coat pockets, his eyes wandering across old novels and forgotten titles. Jeeny sat on the counter beside a stack of worn notebooks, her hair falling loosely around her face, a faint smile playing on her lips as she flipped through a weathered journal.

Outside, the street was empty except for the distant sound of a church bell. It was Christmas Eve — quiet, almost holy.

And the past, tonight, seemed close enough to touch.

Jeeny: “Greg Rucka once said, ‘The first story I can remember writing, that I truly set down on paper, was a Christmas story that I wrote when I was ten years old.’”
(she looked up, her eyes soft but searching)
“Isn’t it strange, Jack? How the stories we write as children are usually the truest ones?”

Jack: “Truest because we didn’t know how to lie yet?”
(he half-smiled, pulling a book from the shelf)
“Or because we didn’t know anyone was watching?”

Host: The wooden floorboards creaked as he walked closer, his breath visible in the cold air that still lingered near the door. Jeeny closed the notebook and set it aside, her expression thoughtful.

Jeeny: “Maybe both. When you’re ten, you write from the center of yourself — before the world starts editing you.”

Jack: “Yeah, but those stories never survive adulthood. The world has a way of redlining innocence.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why Rucka remembered his. It wasn’t about craft. It was about memory — a snapshot of who he was before life demanded explanations.”

Jack: “You talk like innocence is some kind of lost manuscript.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it?”

Host: A draft of cold air slipped under the door, stirring the loose papers on the counter. Jack watched them flutter, as if words themselves were trying to escape. His voice dropped — low, steady, the tone of a man remembering something he once buried.

Jack: “You know, I wrote a story when I was a kid too. About a fisherman who caught the moon in his net.”

Jeeny: “What happened to it?”

Jack: “Threw it away. My father found it and said I should write something useful — not fairytales.”

Jeeny: “And you listened.”

Jack: “Of course. You grow up learning which dreams earn applause and which earn silence.”

Jeeny: “And you wonder why people forget how to believe.”

Host: The snow outside thickened, layering the street in quiet silver. The lights of passing cars blurred through the window, their glow like ghosts moving through time. Jeeny slid off the counter, walked toward Jack, and leaned against the opposite shelf.

Jeeny: “Do you ever think about what that boy would say to you now — the one who wrote about the moon?”

Jack: “He’d probably ask me why I stopped.”

Jeeny: “And what would you tell him?”

Jack: “That stories don’t pay rent. That imagination doesn’t sign checks. That sometimes, reality wins.”

Jeeny: “That’s not reality, Jack. That’s surrender.”

Jack: “You make surrender sound like a crime.”

Jeeny: “It is — when it’s the soul you’re surrendering.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked softly, filling the space between their words. In the corner, a small Christmas tree stood, its lights blinking in tired rhythm. A child’s drawing of Santa — crayon and crooked handwriting — was taped beside it, signed with the name Lucy, age 6.

Jeeny noticed it and smiled.

Jeeny: “You see that? Even she’s telling stories. Maybe that’s what Christmas really is — the one night the world lets us believe again.”

Jack: “Believe in what? Magic?”

Jeeny: “No. In beginnings.”

Jack: “You think we get to start over?”

Jeeny: “Every time we choose to remember.”

Host: The light from the window fell across her face, highlighting the tenderness in her eyes — the kind that comes from faith, not certainty. Jack looked at her for a long moment, his expression softening.

Jack: “You really think writing a story as a kid means anything now?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it means you once believed in creating something that didn’t exist. And the world needs more of that — especially from grown-ups who forgot how.”

Jack: “You sound like a teacher.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I’m just trying to remind you of your fisherman.”

Jack: “The one who caught the moon?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Maybe he’s still waiting — caught in your net all this time.”

Host: Jack laughed, quiet and unexpected, the kind of laugh that sounds like an exhale of years. He shook his head, glancing down at the notebook on the counter — its blank pages inviting, unjudging.

He picked up a pen.

Jack: “What would I even write now?”

Jeeny: “Start with what you’ve lost. Then write your way back.”

Jack: “You really believe words can do that?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Words don’t fix the world, Jack — they fix us, piece by piece.”

Jack: “You sound certain.”

Jeeny: “That’s because I’ve been broken before.”

Host: The snow had nearly covered the window now, turning the glass into a pale mirror. Their reflections stood side by side — one haunted by reason, the other illuminated by belief.

Jeeny reached out, placed her hand gently over the open notebook.

Jeeny: “Write something tonight. Anything. For the boy who caught the moon. For the ten-year-old Rucka. For yourself.”

Jack: “And what if it’s bad?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s honest. Every first story is. That’s why it stays.”

Host: The clock struck nine. Somewhere outside, distant carolers began to sing — faint voices carried on the cold wind, blurring into melody and memory. Jack sat, pen poised above paper, the hesitation trembling in his fingertips.

Jeeny watched, a quiet pride in her eyes — not as a critic, but as a believer.

Jack: “You ever wonder what makes people stop creating?”

Jeeny: “Fear. Always fear.”

Jack: “Fear of failure?”

Jeeny: “Fear of being seen. Of being ten years old again, holding out your heart on paper and waiting for someone to tell you it’s enough.”

Jack: “And what if no one ever does?”

Jeeny: “Then you tell yourself.”

Host: The first word appeared — shaky, uncertain, but real. Jack wrote, then paused, then smiled. Something had shifted — not loud, but profound, like a small light flickering back to life after years in the dark.

Jeeny stepped away, pulling her scarf around her neck, ready to leave him with his rediscovery.

Jack: “Where are you going?”

Jeeny: “Home. To remember my own stories.”

Jack: “Will I see you again?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But finish your story first.”

Host: She walked to the door, the bell above it ringing softly as she stepped into the snow. Jack watched her go, then looked back at the notebook — his pen still warm in his hand.

He continued to write — slowly, deliberately — the words coming now like breaths he’d forgotten how to take.

Host: Outside, the snow fell heavier, blanketing the streets, muffling the world. Inside the little bookshop, a man wrote, a candle of creation burning against the cold.

And as the night deepened, one truth became clear:

The first story never really leaves you.
It waits — quietly — until you remember how to listen.

And when you do, it forgives you for the silence.