We always watch 'The Polar Express.' I love that movie; that's a

Host: The night was cold, the kind that bit gently at the skin but soothed the soul. The living room was bathed in the warm glow of string lights and the flicker of a television screen. The soft hum of a fireplace filled the space with a golden heartbeat, steady and alive. Snow fell outside the window, each flake a whisper of quiet joy.

Jeeny sat cross-legged on the floor, wrapped in a wool blanket, a cup of hot chocolate in her hands. Jack sat on the couch, his legs stretched out, a half-empty glass of bourbon beside him. On the screen, the animated train of The Polar Express chugged through a blizzard, whistling into the frozen dark.

Jack: “You still make me watch this every year, huh?”

Jeeny: “It’s not just a movie, Jack. It’s… a ritual. It’s Christmas without the crowds, without the noise. Just a moment to believe again.”

Host: The firelight danced across her face, catching in her eyes like tiny stars. Jack watched her for a moment, then looked away, smirking.

Jack: “Believe in what? Flying reindeer? Magic trains? A talking hobo on top of a locomotive?”

Jeeny: “In wonder, Jack. In hope. In the idea that some things don’t need to make sense to be real. Alice Merton once said, ‘We always watch The Polar Express. I love that movie; that’s a very, very nice Christmas tradition that we have.’ It’s not about the train. It’s about the tradition — the feeling of coming back to something safe, something warm.”

Host: The television glowed, the colors shifting from icy blue to gold, from loneliness to faith. Outside, the snow thickened, covering the streetlights in a gentle hush.

Jack: “Traditions are just… loops, Jeeny. People repeating what makes them feel less alone. It’s comforting, sure, but it’s not magic. It’s memory wearing a coat of nostalgia.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t that what magic really is? Memory that refuses to die? Think about it — every year, you do the same little things. You light the fire the same way, pour your drink the same way. You pretend it’s just habit, but deep down, it’s ritual. It’s your way of keeping the world steady while everything else keeps changing.”

Host: Jack shifted, leaning back, his eyes on the ceiling where the light from the fire flickered like ghosts of old winters.

Jack: “Maybe. But the world doesn’t stay steady, Jeeny. We just lie to ourselves to make it seem like it does. You light a candle, sing a song, watch a movie — and you call it peace. But it’s just a pause between storms.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes a pause is all you need. You don’t call a heartbeat meaningless just because it’s temporary, do you?”

Host: A silence settled between them — the kind that wasn’t empty, but full, like the space after the last note of a song.

Jack: “You really think watching an old movie can hold people together?”

Jeeny: “I think it can remind them what it means to be together. You see, that movie — it’s not about trains or Christmas presents. It’s about faith. The boy hears the bell because he believes, and that belief keeps him connected to wonder. Isn’t that what we’re missing most of the year?”

Host: Jeeny’s voice was soft, but it cut through the quiet like a thread of light. Jack looked at her, his brows furrowed, his jaw set, the firelight painting his face in warm bronze.

Jack: “You make it sound like losing faith is a crime. But maybe we outgrow it, Jeeny. Maybe belief is a childhood coat — too small to wear forever.”

Jeeny: “No. We just forget how to wear it. We get older, the world gets louder, and we start thinking magic needs proof. But look around — the snow, the warmth, this tiny little moment. Isn’t that proof enough that something good still exists?”

Host: The fire crackled, sending up a shower of sparks that faded before they reached the ceiling. The movie continued to play, the train now soaring over mountains, racing toward the North Pole.

Jack: “You know, I used to watch this with my mom. Every year. She’d make cocoa, and we’d sit by the tree. She’d cry every time the boy rang the bell at the end.”

Jeeny: “See? That’s your tradition. You’ve been keeping it all along. You just didn’t realize it.”

Jack: “She’s gone now. Has been for years.”

Jeeny: “That doesn’t mean the memory isn’t real. Or that it doesn’t still ring.”

Host: Jack looked at the screen, his eyes reflecting the animation — the boy holding the silver bell, its sound inaudible to those who no longer believe. He swallowed, his throat tight.

Jack: “You ever think the movie’s cruel? Like it’s mocking us — saying only kids can believe, and the rest of us are just deaf to it?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s forgiving us. It tells us it’s okay to be tired, to doubt, but it also invites us back — like the train itself. It’s always there, waiting. You just have to be brave enough to get on.”

Host: Her words were like embers, small but persistent, glowing even after they fell. Jack rubbed his hands together, as if trying to warm something inside him that had gone cold long ago.

Jack: “You think faith is a choice, then?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s a practice. Like kindness. Or forgiveness. You keep doing it until it feels real again.”

Host: The room glowed in quiet intimacy. Outside, the snow had thickened, covering the city in a blanket of silence. Inside, the firelight softened, the flames leaning low, as if they too were listening.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe tradition is just a promise we keep — not to the world, but to ourselves.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s how we say, ‘I’m still here.’ Even when everything else has changed.”

Host: The movie ended, the credits rolling in soft music. Neither of them moved. The clock ticked past midnight. The fire whispered its last breath.

Jeeny stood, walked to the window, and looked out at the snow, her silhouette outlined in the silver light of the moon.

Jeeny: “Every year, the same film, the same story — and yet, somehow, it feels new. That’s the beauty of it. It’s not about escaping reality. It’s about remembering what’s still beautiful in it.”

Host: Jack joined her at the window, their reflections side by side in the glass, two faces in the winter night. For a moment, neither spoke. Then Jack smiled, faint but real.

Jack: “You know what, Jeeny? I think I hear the bell this time.”

Jeeny: (softly) “I told you. You just had to listen.”

Host: Outside, the snow fell thicker, blanketing the city in silence, each flake a promise that tradition, memory, and faith would always find their way back — even to those who had forgotten how to believe.

And somewhere, faint but clear, a bell rang.