When I was 12, all I wanted for Christmas was a trampoline or a

Host:
The night smelled of cedar smoke and frost, the kind that wraps around you like an old memory. A small cabin stood in the middle of a snow-covered clearing, its windows glowing with the soft orange light of a crackling fire. Outside, the forest whispered in the wind, a choir of ancient trees bowing beneath the weight of winter.

Inside, Jack sat in a worn armchair, his boots by the hearth, a glass of whiskey resting loosely in his hand. His grey eyes reflected the flames, restless and deep, like someone who had seen too much and felt too little.

Across from him, Jeeny knelt by the fireplace, feeding it a few more logs, her hair glowing in the light, her face soft but thoughtful. The air between them was heavy with something unnamed — nostalgia, maybe, or the ache of remembering when life was simpler.

On the table between them lay a small, folded scrap of paper — on it, a quote scrawled in fading ink:
“When I was 12, all I wanted for Christmas was a trampoline or a four-wheeler. I ended up getting both presents for Christmas.” — Chris Brown

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Funny, isn’t it? When we’re young, happiness feels so simple. A trampoline. A four-wheeler. Two little symbols of joy — motion and freedom.”

Jack: (taking a slow sip) “Yeah. And then you grow up and realize the trampolines get smaller, and the cages get bigger.”

Jeeny: (tilting her head) “You think happiness fades that easily?”

Jack: “No. I think we forget how to recognize it. When you’re twelve, you want to fly — not because you understand gravity, but because you don’t care about falling. Then life happens, and falling starts to matter.”

Host:
The fire crackled, sending a shower of sparks into the air, like tiny fragments of lost stars. Jeeny watched them rise and vanish, her eyes reflecting the dance between light and shadow.

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not that we stop seeing happiness — maybe we start confusing it with achievement. Kids want joy; adults want proof.”

Jack: (chuckling darkly) “Proof, huh? Yeah. Proof that you’re enough. That the struggle meant something. That the house, the car, the salary — all of it — adds up to more than a paycheck.”

Jeeny: “But it never does, does it?”

Jack: “No. You climb a mountain and realize the view’s the same as the last one — just colder.”

Host:
The storm outside grew louder, snowflakes tapping softly against the windowpane. In the firelight, Jack’s face looked both weathered and boyish, as if some part of him still stood on a childhood porch waiting for Christmas morning.

Jeeny: “You know what I think that quote really means?”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “Enlighten me.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about the presents. It’s about the moment before — the wanting, the dreaming. That space between desire and fulfillment — that’s where life feels most alive. Before you open the box, before you know what’s inside.”

Jack: (scoffing softly) “So, you’re saying anticipation’s better than reality.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes, yes. Because anticipation is hope — and hope is untouched. Once you get what you want, it becomes ordinary.”

Jack: (leaning forward, intrigued) “That’s poetic. But kind of tragic too, don’t you think? To say the best part of joy is before it begins?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Not tragic. Human. The heart beats hardest in waiting.”

Host:
The fire popped, sending a spark that briefly lit the room brighter. Jack’s eyes softened, the hardness in them flickering away for a moment. Jeeny’s voice carried gently, like snow landing on stone.

Jack: “You make it sound like happiness is a ghost — something you can feel, but never hold.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe it’s not meant to be held. Maybe happiness is the trampoline itself — a thing that throws you up, only to let you fall again, laughing.”

Jack: (smiling wryly) “And the four-wheeler?”

Jeeny: “That’s life — loud, wild, dangerous, but beautiful if you steer it right.”

Jack: (laughing quietly) “You really think life’s that simple?”

Jeeny: “No. But it could be, if we stopped pretending it wasn’t.”

Host:
The flames swayed in the hearth, throwing shadows across the wooden walls. The wind moaned faintly outside — not in sorrow, but in some ancient rhythm, as if nature itself whispered reminders of how little humans need to feel alive.

Jack: “When I was twelve, I wanted to be a pilot. Thought flying would make me free. Spent my life chasing that feeling — in jobs, in people, in bottles.”

Jeeny: “And did you find it?”

Jack: (after a long silence) “For a while. But freedom has a way of turning into loneliness when you forget who you’re flying for.”

Jeeny: (softly) “So you stopped believing in Christmas?”

Jack: “I stopped believing in surprises.”

Jeeny: “That’s worse.”

Host:
A moment of silence stretched between them. Snow fell thicker now, soft and relentless, muffling the world outside into a kind of quiet eternity. Jeeny stood and walked to the window, pressing her palm to the cold glass.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe the reason children are happy isn’t because they get what they want — it’s because they believe they might. They wake up every morning thinking the world could still surprise them.”

Jack: (looking at her) “And adults wake up remembering all the ways it didn’t.”

Jeeny: (turning toward him) “Then maybe that’s what growing up really means — trading wonder for certainty. And the tragedy is, we think that’s progress.”

Host:
The firelight dimmed as one of the logs collapsed inward, releasing a sigh of ash and ember. Jack rose from his chair and walked slowly toward the window, standing beside her. For a long moment, they watched the snow, silent and hypnotic.

Jack: “You ever miss being twelve?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Every day. But I don’t want the trampoline or the four-wheeler anymore.”

Jack: “Then what do you want?”

Jeeny: (looking out into the falling snow) “To feel like I did the night before Christmas — when everything was possible, and nothing had yet been lost.”

Host:
The wind eased. The forest exhaled. Jack’s hand twitched, as though reaching for something — not her, not the past, but perhaps that vanished feeling of belief. He placed his hand gently on the window frame, fingers brushing against hers for just a second.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the trick, huh? Learning to live like it’s Christmas Eve — not Christmas morning.”

Jeeny: (whispering) “Yes. Because happiness isn’t the gift. It’s the waiting.”

Host:
The camera pulled back slowly, through the window, into the falling snow. Inside the cabin, the fire still burned — two figures framed in its light, small and human and real.

The snowflakes danced like white ashes around them, each one unique, fleeting, unrepeatable — like every moment of joy we almost hold but never truly keep.

And as the scene faded, the Host’s voice lingered:

Host:
Perhaps the greatest tragedy of growing up is not that we stop believing in Santa Claus — but that we stop believing in wonder.

Because the secret, as Chris Brown’s words remind us, is simple:
Life gives us our trampolines and our four-wheelers — but the real miracle is remembering how it felt to want them.