At what point then is the approach of danger to be expected? I

Host: The night was cold, sharp with the electric scent of rain, and the city slept beneath its own weight — the streetlamps humming like weary sentinels, their light slicing through mist. Down an old cobblestone street, the windows of a deserted café glowed faintly, as if memory itself had kept them lit.

Inside, Jack sat by the window, his hands wrapped around a cup of black coffee that had long since cooled. The steam had gone, but his thoughts still burned. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, elbows on the table, her eyes bright with conviction, her voice low — almost reverent — as though the words she was about to speak demanded more than breath.

Jeeny: “Abraham Lincoln once said, ‘At what point then is the approach of danger to be expected? I answer, if it ever reach us, it must spring up amongst us. It cannot come from abroad. If destruction be our lot, we must ourselves be its author and finisher. As a nation of freemen, we must live through all time, or die by suicide.’”
Her voice lingered, heavy with warning and awe. “It’s one of the most haunting things he ever said. He wasn’t talking about armies. He was talking about rot — the kind that begins from within.”

Jack: “Yeah.”
He nodded slowly, eyes drifting toward the dark window. “He saw it before anyone else did — that the greatest threat to freedom doesn’t wear an enemy’s uniform. It wears a familiar face.”

Jeeny: “The enemy within.”

Jack: “The slow corrosion of conscience. Not bombs, not borders — but apathy, greed, and the arrogance of believing we’re invincible.”

Jeeny: “And that’s what he meant by ‘suicide.’ That liberty isn’t murdered — it decays from neglect.”

Jack: “Exactly. You don’t lose a republic overnight. You just stop defending it one small compromise at a time.”

Host: The rain began, softly at first, tapping against the glass. The sound mingled with the faint hiss of the café’s old radiator, creating a kind of melancholy rhythm, like time breathing in and out.

Jeeny: “You know, it’s strange — Lincoln said this in 1838. Before the war, before the assassinations, before the fractures became visible. He was already mourning a country that hadn’t yet broken.”

Jack: “Because he understood human nature. Freedom’s not a structure — it’s a practice. And practices can die if they’re not renewed.”

Jeeny: “So the danger he saw wasn’t in the form of invasion — it was in forgetfulness.”

Jack: “Yes. The forgetting of what freedom costs. Every generation that inherits liberty starts to treat it like an heirloom instead of a responsibility.”

Jeeny: “Until it tarnishes in their hands.”

Jack: “Or they sell it for convenience.”

Jeeny: “Or fear.”

Jack: “Always fear.”

Host: The café clock ticked, the sound slicing through the rain’s murmur. In the reflection of the window, Jack’s face looked older — etched by thought, shadowed by the faint glow of streetlight.

Jeeny: “Do you think that’s what’s happening now? That we’re writing our own suicide note as a society?”

Jack: “Every empire does. The ink just changes color.”

Jeeny: “Cynical.”

Jack: “Realistic. Freedom breeds complacency. People mistake stability for immortality. But every free nation is a delicate experiment — and we keep testing its breaking point.”

Jeeny: “But Lincoln believed in redemption.”

Jack: “He believed in awareness. Redemption comes only after recognition. You can’t save what you refuse to admit is dying.”

Jeeny: “So the first step to saving liberty is despairing over it?”

Jack: “Not despair — responsibility. Despair paralyzes. Responsibility acts.”

Jeeny: “And yet, most people would rather not look too closely. It’s easier to blame outsiders than to admit that the cracks are ours.”

Jack: “Because it’s painful to confess that the danger you fear is wearing your reflection.”

Host: The light flickered, the bulbs buzzing faintly as the power wavered. Jeeny looked up, her eyes momentarily catching the ghost of their own reflections. The storm outside tightened, thunder rolling low like a judgmental god.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Lincoln understood something that’s still true today — that democracy isn’t sustained by laws, but by moral imagination. Once that dies, the rest collapses.”

Jack: “Moral imagination — that’s a good phrase. The ability to see others’ freedom as bound up in your own.”

Jeeny: “And when you lose that empathy, you start cutting away at the fabric that holds a nation together.”

Jack: “Until freedom becomes a slogan instead of a practice.”

Jeeny: “Or a shield for selfishness.”

Jack: “Exactly. People start using liberty as an excuse not to care — forgetting that freedom without compassion is just license.”

Jeeny: “License to destroy yourself.”

Jack: “And to call it progress.”

Host: The storm raged harder, wind pressing against the glass like the breath of something ancient and warning. Jack leaned back, cigarette trembling slightly between his fingers.

Jeeny: “You know what strikes me most about that speech? The inevitability in his voice. ‘If destruction be our lot, we must ourselves be its author and finisher.’ It’s almost prophetic.”

Jack: “It’s not prophecy. It’s psychology. He knew that freedom carries within it the seeds of its own undoing — pride, excess, self-interest. The moment a society believes it’s beyond corruption, it’s already sick.”

Jeeny: “So humility is the only cure.”

Jack: “And accountability the only medicine.”

Jeeny: “But those are always the first virtues to go when comfort becomes culture.”

Jack: “Yes. Because comfort dulls vigilance.”

Jeeny: “And vigilance is the price of survival.”

Jack: “Lincoln’s whole life was proof of that. He saw democracy as a fragile conscience — something that must be kept awake, not assumed eternal.”

Host: The rain slowed, softening into mist. The city lights blurred through the fog, painting the wet streets in silver. The world looked like it was made of reflection — and perhaps, repentance.

Jeeny: “Do you think there’s hope, Jack? For any nation that’s already started writing its own epitaph?”

Jack: “Hope’s the only thing worth keeping when everything else has been corrupted. But it has to be an active hope. A defiant one.”

Jeeny: “You mean, faith that fights?”

Jack: “Exactly. Hope that looks into the abyss and still builds something. That’s what Lincoln did — he turned despair into resolve.”

Jeeny: “So freedom survives not through optimism, but through responsibility.”

Jack: “And through courage — the courage to confront your own reflection and not flinch.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the real test of a free nation isn’t how it handles enemies, but how it handles truth.”

Jack: “Yes. Because truth is always the first casualty of fear — and fear is the most effective dictator of all.”

Host: The rain stopped, and the sky cleared just enough for a sliver of moonlight to pierce through the glass. It fell across the table, illuminating the half-empty coffee cups, the crumbs of conversation, the ghosts of conviction.

Jack: “You know, Lincoln’s warning wasn’t just about nations. It was about souls. Every human being is its own small republic. We all face the same danger — internal decay.”

Jeeny: “So the line between political and personal freedom is just an illusion.”

Jack: “Exactly. You can’t have liberty in the world if you’re enslaved to your own cowardice.”

Jeeny: “And you can’t protect truth if you’re afraid of yourself.”

Jack: “Which is why he said we must live through all time, or die by suicide. It wasn’t about history. It was about integrity.”

Host: The moonlight widened, painting the café in silver clarity. The storm was over, but its echo remained — the air heavy, as if truth itself had passed through and left residue.

And in that moment, Abraham Lincoln’s words seemed less like history and more like prophecy, spoken again through the trembling stillness of the present:

that no nation, no soul, is ever destroyed from without — only from within.
That the slow surrender of conscience,
the death of empathy,
the decay of truth —
these are the architects of collapse.

Freedom, he said, is not inherited —
it is earned every day,
guarded not by walls,
but by awareness.

And if we fall —
as people, as nations, as dreamers —
it will not be because we were conquered,
but because, somewhere in the quiet,
we forgot how to care.

The clock struck midnight,
and in its echo,
the world — for one fragile instant —
seemed to listen.