Chance is a word void of sense; nothing can exist without a

Host: The night was carved into fragments of light and shadow, the kind of darkness that hums with quiet electricity. Rain whispered against the tall windows of an old factory, long abandoned but now reborn as an art studio — the smell of turpentine, metal, and wet stone thick in the air. Canvases leaned against cracked walls, some half-finished, some defaced.

Host: In the middle of this silent cathedral of creation stood Jack, his sleeves rolled up, his hands smeared with paint. He stared at a blank canvas — a rectangle of pure potential, pure void. Jeeny entered quietly, her umbrella dripping from the storm, her eyes catching the flicker of the single lamp that lit the space.

Jeeny: “Still painting chaos, Jack?”

Jack: “Trying to. But it keeps organizing itself.”

Jeeny: “That’s because there’s no such thing as chaos. Voltaire said it best: ‘Chance is a word void of sense; nothing can exist without a cause.’”

Host: Jack turned, the lamp’s glow slicing across his face, accentuating the sharp line of his jaw, the quiet storm in his eyes.

Jack: “You and your philosophers. Maybe Voltaire never watched a storm tear a roof off a house. Maybe he never saw how random life can be.”

Jeeny: “He lived through wars and revolutions, Jack. He knew the difference between randomness and consequence. The storm has causes too — heat, pressure, imbalance. You just don’t always see them.”

Jack: “So you’re saying everything’s got a reason? Even when people die young? Even when a drunk driver hits a kid? That’s cause and order to you?”

Host: The rain intensified, beating against the glass, a wild rhythm echoing the rising tension between them. Jack’s hands trembled slightly — not from anger, but something deeper, something old.

Jeeny: “I didn’t say it’s all fair, Jack. I said it’s all connected. Even tragedy has a thread. You may not see where it starts, but it’s there.”

Jack: “That’s comforting only for those who need to pretend pain means something.”

Jeeny: “No — that’s what keeps us sane. To believe the universe isn’t blind, that there’s more than chaos behind the curtain.”

Host: Jack stepped back, his boots scraping the concrete. He pointed at the blank canvas.

Jack: “Then tell me — what’s the cause of that? Why can’t I paint anymore? Why did everything dry up after she left?”

Host: His voice cracked slightly, the first fracture in his iron logic. Jeeny’s gaze softened; she walked closer, slow, cautious, like approaching a wounded animal.

Jeeny: “You already know the cause. You just don’t want to admit it.”

Jack: “You mean guilt?”

Jeeny: “No. Love. The one thing you keep pretending isn’t a force.”

Host: The light bulb above them flickered — a pulse of brightness that caught the dust in the air, each particle dancing like a suspended moment.

Jack: “Love isn’t a cause, Jeeny. It’s a reaction. A chemical illusion to keep our species reproducing.”

Jeeny: “That’s biology talking. But even biology is cause and effect. Why does a chemical trigger that feeling with that person? Why at that time? Why not another? You can’t explain it away with molecules. It’s more deliberate than we admit.”

Jack: “So what, you think the universe is matchmaking now?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not matchmaking. But weaving. Every choice, every look, every accident — threads pulling through a pattern we only see when we step back far enough.”

Host: She gestured toward his canvas, still blank except for the faint shadow of his handprint on its edge.

Jeeny: “Even blankness has a cause, Jack. Your silence on that canvas — it’s not random. It’s grief. It’s longing. You’re painting without paint.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flickered — a mix of defiance and understanding. He looked at the canvas, then back at her.

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But sometimes a blank canvas is just fear.”

Jeeny: “And fear is still a cause.”

Host: Her voice softened to a whisper, like a confession more than a challenge. The rain had turned to a drizzle now, soft and steady, as if even the storm was listening.

Jeeny: “Look, Jack. Voltaire wasn’t denying mystery — he was saying mystery moves. It has roots. When you call something chance, you’re just too close to see the design.”

Jack: “That’s the problem, isn’t it? We keep inventing causes so we can feel safe. Religion, fate, karma — all just names for our fear of randomness.”

Jeeny: “And yet, even fear has its own cause.”

Host: He laughed, low and hollow, but there was no mockery left — only fatigue.

Jack: “You always win these debates by making my cynicism sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “Because even cynicism is a belief, Jack. You believe in nothing — but that’s still belief.”

Host: The lamp buzzed softly. The room was half-shadow now, half-light — like their conversation.

Jack: “You ever think about the earthquake in Lisbon — 1755? Voltaire wrote Candide after that. Tens of thousands dead. Churches collapsed mid-prayer. He called it proof against divine order. How’s that not chance?”

Jeeny: “He called it proof against blind faith, not against cause. The quake wasn’t moral — it was tectonic. It had a reason beneath the reason. What he couldn’t bear was that humans wanted to make it holy.”

Host: She stepped closer, the floorboards creaking. Her hand brushed the edge of the canvas, leaving a faint streak of rainwater across it — the first mark.

Jeeny: “Maybe chance is just what we call the part of causality we haven’t mapped yet.”

Jack: “Then maybe life’s one long equation waiting to be solved.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s a painting — unfinished, but not random.”

Host: The lamp flared once more. Jack stared at the faint streak she’d made, something shifting quietly in him. His jaw unclenched; his shoulders dropped.

Jack: “You always think everything connects, don’t you? Even the ugly parts.”

Jeeny: “Especially the ugly parts. They’re the only ones honest enough to teach us.”

Host: Silence filled the room again — not emptiness, but presence. Outside, the rain had stopped completely. The world seemed paused, waiting for something small but certain to occur.

Jack: “Maybe Voltaire was right. Chance is an illusion. Maybe everything I’ve called meaningless just... hasn’t revealed its cause yet.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The meaning’s already there. It’s just waiting for the right eyes to see it.”

Host: Jack dipped his brush into the jar of paint, finally — a small motion, deliberate, reverent. He dragged a single stroke of red across the white, slow as breath.

Jack: “You think this stroke has a cause too?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Every act of creation is an act of consequence.”

Host: He smiled faintly, a thin, private thing, and whispered — almost to himself —

Jack: “Then maybe this is me starting again.”

Host: The room filled with a still light that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. The canvas, now marked, glowed faintly against the shadows — the first sign of order after emptiness.

Host: And as the last drops of rain fell outside, the city exhaled, the world once again proving Voltaire right: that there is no such thing as chance — only causes, finally seen.