The only thing better than singing is more singing.

Host: The jazz club pulsed like a living heartbeat. Smoke curled above the crowd like ghosts of rhythm, and the low hum of conversation melted into the lazy sway of a saxophone. Red velvet curtains framed the small stage, where the microphone stood — lonely but expectant — gleaming under the amber lights.

The piano whispered a scale in warm half-tones, a cigarette burned slow in an ashtray, and somewhere in the back, a glass clinked like the punctuation of a jazz note. The air smelled of bourbon, perfume, and stories.

At a corner table, Jack leaned back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, a glass of whiskey half gone. His eyes weren’t on the stage — they were somewhere far away, caught between nostalgia and silence.

Across from him sat Jeeny, her dark hair falling over one shoulder, her lips curved in a soft smile that carried both mischief and melancholy. She held a microphone loosely in her hand, tapping it gently against her knee like a heartbeat.

Jeeny: softly, almost singing it “Ella Fitzgerald once said — ‘The only thing better than singing is more singing.’”

Jack: grinning faintly “That sounds like something she’d say — pure, unfiltered joy. No philosophy. Just truth wrapped in melody.”

Jeeny: smiling “Or maybe it’s her philosophy — that joy itself is the philosophy.”

Host: The lights dimmed as the band began tuning. A few notes floated through the air — bass, trumpet, drum brush — the sound of a soul stretching before it begins to dance.

Jack: nodding toward the stage “You ever think about what it means to live like that? To love something so much that the only answer to it… is more of it?”

Jeeny: smiling wistfully “It means you’ve found the one thing that doesn’t empty you. It fills you, even when it breaks you.”

Jack: quietly “Like music.”

Jeeny: softly “Like love.”

Host: The trumpet played a lazy phrase, and someone laughed near the bar — that full, careless laugh of a night unplanned. The drummer tested his snare. Everything was alive with anticipation, the room waiting for the first real note.

Jack: leaning forward “You ever sing when no one’s listening?”

Jeeny: grinning “That’s the only time I sing. When no one expects it, when the notes belong to no one but me.”

Jack: smiling faintly “That’s freedom, isn’t it?”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “It is. Singing without an audience — that’s the truest kind. Because you’re not performing, you’re remembering.”

Jack: thoughtfully “Remembering what?”

Jeeny: softly “That you’re alive.”

Host: The stage lights came up a little brighter, washing the red curtains in honeyed gold. The pianist began a quiet progression — something bluesy, familiar. The chatter in the club faded into reverent silence.

Jack: smiling faintly “You going up there?”

Jeeny: grinning, teasing “You sound like you want me to.”

Jack: shrugging “I just want to see if Ella was right.”

Jeeny: laughing softly “She always is.”

Host: She stood, the chair sliding gently across the floor. The crowd’s attention shifted toward her — the soft rustle of expectation rising like a breeze. Jack watched her climb the few steps to the stage, his grin fading into something deeper — admiration, maybe longing.

The piano found its rhythm. She took a slow breath, her eyes closing, and for a moment, the world paused.

Then she began to sing.

Her voice was soft at first — the sound of velvet brushing against light. Then it grew, blooming like warmth across the room. The melody was simple, old, maybe even broken, but it carried something infinite — the way a smile can carry a lifetime.

Jack’s eyes stayed fixed on her. Around him, the bar dissolved — no tables, no glasses, no strangers. Just the sound of a voice that made everything real again.

Jeeny: singing softly, between verses “You know what’s funny, Jack? The song never ends. It just changes singers.”

Jack: smiling, whispering to himself “And the audience becomes the next verse.”

Host: The band swelled gently, the drummer brushing rhythm against air. The saxophone joined her, weaving through her voice like a memory refusing to leave.

Jeeny’s words filled the room — love, loss, laughter, all mingled into something that felt less like performance and more like prayer.

When the song ended, there was no applause right away — just a collective hush, as if everyone had forgotten how to return to ordinary sound.

Then, slowly, the clapping began — not loud, but deep, like gratitude finding its voice again.

Jeeny smiled, bowed slightly, then came back to the table, her cheeks flushed with warmth.

Jack: quietly, still caught in the spell “You were right. She was right. The only thing better than singing… is more singing.”

Jeeny: smiling, breathless “Because singing isn’t just sound — it’s survival. You sing to remember what the world makes you forget.”

Jack: softly “That you still have a heart.”

Jeeny: nodding “And that it still beats in time with something larger than yourself.”

Host: The camera would linger now — the two of them in their quiet corner, the band behind them slipping into another tune, the crowd alive again with laughter and conversation. But in that moment, between the clatter of glasses and the hum of saxophone, something sacred remained.

The way a song hangs in the air long after the final note.
The way a voice can fill an empty space until it feels like home.

And as the music swelled softly once more, Ella Fitzgerald’s words would echo through the room — not as a quote, but as a truth eternal and uncontainable:

“The only thing better than singing is more singing.”

Because joy doesn’t diminish by sharing —
it multiplies.

Every note is a confession,
every chorus a promise,
every song a reminder
that we are still capable
of beauty without reason.

And somewhere,
in every voice that dares to rise against silence,
the spirit of Ella still hums —

a whisper, a smile,
a heartbeat in sync with the world’s own melody:

Sing again.
And then —
sing more.