Absolute truth belongs to Thee alone.

Host: The church bells echoed faintly through the evening fog, their notes trembling in the damp air like forgotten prayers. The city square lay half-asleep, cobblestones slick with rain, the air thick with the smell of wet stone and old incense drifting from a nearby chapel.

In the corner café, just across from the worn cathedral gates, Jack sat hunched over a glass of whiskey, his fingers tracing the rim as though searching for something invisible. Jeeny sat opposite him, her coat folded, her hands still gloved, her eyes catching the low light of the flickering candle between them.

The quote lay scribbled on a napkin, its ink slightly blurred by a drop of water—perhaps rain, perhaps something else.

“Absolute truth belongs to Thee alone.” — Gotthold Ephraim Lessing

Jeeny: “You know, there’s something beautiful in that line… It feels like surrender. Like someone finally admitting that no human can own the truth.”

Jack: “Or it’s an excuse. A poetic way of saying we’ll never know anything for sure, so why bother looking.”

Host: His voice was dry, edged with that familiar skeptic’s tone, the kind that leaves a sting in every word. He tilted the glass, letting the light dance in the amber liquid, like a small, private fire.

Jeeny: “You really think searching for truth is pointless?”

Jack: “No. I think claiming to have found it is dangerous. That’s how wars start. Religions, revolutions, ideologies—every one of them begins with someone saying, ‘I’ve found the absolute truth.’ And then they stop listening.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t the danger in the arrogance, not the search itself? Lessing wasn’t condemning faith, Jack. He was reminding us to be humble before it.”

Jack: “Humility doesn’t stop bullets.”

Jeeny: “Neither does cynicism.”

Host: The candlelight flickered, and for a moment their faces seemed carved from opposite worlds—his angular and shadowed, hers soft yet steadfast, her eyes glistening with something that looked like faith wrapped in pain.

Jack: “Look, Jeeny, if there’s an absolute truth, it’s this: everyone’s convinced they’re right. The priests, the scientists, the politicians. And yet the world keeps burning. What kind of truth lets that happen?”

Jeeny: “The kind that isn’t ours to hold. Lessing wasn’t speaking of power or ownership; he was speaking of reverence. Maybe the problem is that we keep treating truth as a weapon instead of a mystery.”

Jack: “Mystery doesn’t feed the hungry.”

Jeeny: “But arrogance starves the soul.”

Host: A pause fell, heavy and raw. The rain outside began again—soft, deliberate, as though the sky itself were thinking. A group of students passed by the window, laughing beneath their umbrellas, their voices fading into the wet night.

Jack: “Do you remember Galileo?”

Jeeny: “Of course.”

Jack: “He looked through a telescope and found truth. And the Church silenced him because their version of ‘absolute truth’ couldn’t survive the stars. Tell me, Jeeny—was God speaking through the priests or through the telescope?”

Jeeny: “Maybe both.”

Jack: chuckles darkly “Both? Come on.”

Jeeny: “Yes, both. One spoke of heaven, the other of the heavens. Truth isn’t divided by instruments or faith—it’s revealed in fragments. Maybe absolute truth does belong to God because we’re not meant to own it, only to glimpse it.”

Jack: “And what if the fragments contradict each other?”

Jeeny: “Then we learn to live inside the contradiction. That’s what makes us human.”

Host: The rain grew louder, a steady percussion against the window, like the heartbeat of the argument itself. Jeeny’s hands trembled slightly, but her voice stayed steady. Jack leaned forward, his grey eyes searching hers for cracks, but finding only conviction.

Jack: “You know, you sound like those old mystics. ‘Live in the contradiction,’ ‘truth is divine,’ all that. But the world runs on certainty. People need ground beneath their feet. They need to believe that what they know is true.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly the problem, Jack. People mistake belief for ownership. The moment you say ‘my truth,’ you’ve already turned it into a cage.”

Jack: “So what, we all wander around saying ‘I don’t know’? That’s not wisdom, that’s paralysis.”

Jeeny: “No, that’s humility. The courage to admit you’re not the center of the universe.”

Jack: “Tell that to the people who have to lead, decide, act. The world doesn’t reward humility—it devours it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it remembers it too. Think of Socrates—he died saying he knew nothing. And yet, centuries later, his ignorance built the foundation of reason.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes flickering toward the candle’s flame. The wax had melted into a small pool, reflecting their faces in miniature—two opposing worlds orbiting the same fragile light.

Jack: “You ever wonder if that’s just another story we tell ourselves? That humility will save us, that the divine holds the truth for us? Maybe there’s no ‘Thee.’ Maybe truth doesn’t belong to anyone, because there’s nothing to belong to.”

Jeeny: “You say that, but you still quote Lessing. You still sit here searching. That means you haven’t given up.”

Jack: “Maybe I just like the argument.”

Jeeny: “No. You like the possibility. The idea that there’s still something beyond what we see. Even your doubt is a kind of faith, Jack.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, soft but relentless, like rainfall on stone. Jack’s eyes dropped to his glass. For a moment, he seemed smaller—less the skeptic, more the man beneath it.

Jack: “You think doubt is faith?”

Jeeny: “The beginning of it. Faith without doubt is tyranny.”

Jack: after a long silence “That’s… a dangerous thought.”

Jeeny: “So is truth.”

Host: The clock above the bar ticked steadily, marking time like a distant metronome. The bartender dimmed the lights, and the shadows lengthened across the room. Outside, the fog thickened, wrapping the cathedral in a ghostly veil.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Lessing meant all along. That absolute truth belongs to God because only something infinite can hold it without breaking it. The rest of us—we’re just shards, reflecting pieces of that light.”

Jack: “And yet those shards cut deep.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But they also illuminate.”

Jack: “You always find poetry in pain.”

Jeeny: “Because that’s where truth hides.”

Host: A silence fell—heavy, cleansing. The candle between them flickered, almost dying, then steadied again. Jack reached forward and turned the napkin with the quote face-down, his fingers lingering on it.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe truth is too big for us to own. But if it belongs only to God, where does that leave us?”

Jeeny: “Seeking. Always seeking. And maybe that’s enough.”

Host: Outside, the bells tolled again, their sound low and resonant, washing through the empty square like the echo of an unanswered question.

Jack looked out the window, his reflection merging with the cathedral’s silhouette. Jeeny followed his gaze.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… maybe truth isn’t about arrival at all. Maybe it’s about movement—about walking toward light you’ll never reach, but refusing to stop.”

Jack: “A pilgrimage without end.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain stopped, and the first faint rays of dawn began to rise behind the cathedral, turning the wet stones into mirrors of soft gold. The light fell across their table, washing over the empty glasses, the napkin, and their tired faces.

Host: “And in that fragile morning,” the narrator’s voice whispered, “they both understood—truth, like faith, was not meant to be possessed. Only pursued.”

The bells tolled once more, deep and slow, as the city awoke, and the two souls, still divided by belief yet bound by the same longing, sat in quiet recognition—each humbled before the mystery that no one could own.