Chance is always powerful. Let your hook always be cast; in the

Host: The morning fog rolled in from the harbor, wrapping the pier in pale veils of grey and salt. Seagulls called from somewhere unseen, their voices sharp and ancient, like echoes from forgotten voyages. The water was calm, save for the slow lapping against the wood, a rhythmic heartbeat beneath the hum of dawn.

Jack sat at the edge of the dock, an old fishing rod in his hands, the line disappearing into the mist. His boots were wet, his coat frayed at the edges, but his eyes—those sharp grey eyes—were steady, searching the still water for something unseen.

Jeeny approached quietly, a scarf wound around her neck, her breath visible in the cold air. She carried two cups of steaming coffee, their aroma breaking through the damp silence like warmth through winter.

Jeeny: “You look like a ghost waiting for a sign.”

Jack: (half-smiles) “Maybe I am. Ovid said once, ‘Chance is always powerful. Let your hook always be cast; in the pool where you least expect it, there will be fish.’ Seems fitting for a morning like this.”

Host: A pause—the kind that feels alive. The sound of a rope creaking, the tide pulling, and in that suspended moment, even the sky seemed to listen.

Jeeny: “You think he meant fishing literally?”

Jack: “He meant everything literally and nothing literally. That’s the beauty of poets—they cast words and hope someone bites.”

Jeeny: “And you?”

Jack: “I stopped casting a long time ago.”

Host: She handed him a cup, their fingers brushing briefly. His hands were rough, marked with quiet work and long nights. The fog was thinning now, and through it, faint shapes of boats began to emerge, rocking gently in the harbor’s breath.

Jeeny: “You always talk like the world’s already decided everything. Maybe Ovid was right—chance isn’t just random. Maybe it’s… divine mischief.”

Jack: (snorts) “Divine mischief? Sounds like an excuse for bad planning.”

Jeeny: “Or faith in the unpredictable.”

Jack: “Faith’s a luxury for those who can afford disappointment.”

Host: A seagull swooped, skimming the surface before disappearing again into the mist. Jack’s line trembled, but only slightly—just the current, not a catch. His eyes narrowed, following the ripple until it faded.

Jeeny: “You know, that’s exactly what Ovid was saying. You never really know what’s below the surface. You can’t see it, you can’t control it, but you still cast the line.”

Jack: “And waste your time?”

Jeeny: “No. You live your time.”

Host: Her voice carried softly, a fragile note in the heavy air. A nearby boat groaned, its wood creaking under pressure, like an old body remembering its years.

Jack: “You’re still young enough to romanticize uncertainty. But chance isn’t a poet’s friend. It’s a gambler’s curse. You cast and cast, and sometimes the hook just rusts before anything bites.”

Jeeny: “But sometimes… it bites when you least expect it. You’re proof of that. You didn’t plan to meet me here.”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “That was a mistake of timing.”

Jeeny: (smiles back) “Or chance doing what it does best—proving you wrong.”

Host: The light began to change, turning from dull grey to a faint, amber glow as the sun rose beyond the fog. It glimmered on the water, a quiet promise breaking through the uncertainty. Jack’s face caught a trace of that light, and for the first time, his eyes softened, almost childlike.

Jack: “You ever think about how much of history depends on accidents? Columbus thought he was heading to India. Fleming discovered penicillin by leaving a petri dish out too long. Hell, half the inventions we live with were just mistakes.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the point. The universe rewards the ones who still throw the line, even when they’ve stopped believing it matters.”

Jack: “Or punishes them for trying too hard.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. The only punishment is never trying again.”

Host: Her words hung, heavy and bright all at once. A gust of wind rippled across the harbor, and for a fleeting moment, the surface of the water looked like liquid glass, fractured with tiny reflections of the sun.

Jack: “You sound like my mother. She used to tell me, ‘Even the sea respects the hand that keeps casting.’ I didn’t listen. Then life happened. Jobs, failures, debts—none of it cared about poetry.”

Jeeny: “But you’re still here, aren’t you? Still casting, even if it’s just for conversation.”

Host: The line suddenly tugged—a sharp, sudden pull that broke their stillness. Jack snapped to attention, reeling, his muscles tightening. The rod bent, the reel whirred, and for a heartbeat, it felt like time itself had been hooked.

Jeeny: (eyes wide, whispering) “See?”

Jack: (breathless, smiling for real now) “Probably just debris.”

Jeeny: “Or destiny.”

Host: The line tightened, then slackened. He reeled, careful, patient — and finally, the hook emerged, empty, glistening in the morning light. The bait was gone. Jack laughed — not bitterly this time, but softly, like a man who’s been reminded of something gentle he’d long forgotten.

Jack: “Guess that’s what chance looks like — it teases you, then leaves.”

Jeeny: “Or it teaches you to keep casting.”

Host: The wind picked up, lifting strands of Jeeny’s hair, carrying the faint smell of the sea. Jack looked at her — really looked — and for the first time, the weariness in him seemed to loosen its grip.

Jack: “You really think there’s always a fish waiting somewhere?”

Jeeny: “Not always a fish. But always a reason.”

Jack: “And if the pool is empty?”

Jeeny: “Then at least you learned to wait without giving up.”

Host: A long silence settled — not awkward, but complete. The harbor breathed, the sun rose, and the world began again. The fog was nearly gone now, revealing boats, nets, and the faint glint of life beneath the water’s skin.

Jack set his rod down, his hands resting on his knees, and turned to Jeeny with a quiet smile.

Jack: “Maybe Ovid had it right. Maybe it’s not about catching anything. Maybe it’s about not letting the hook rust.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Exactly. Keep the hook in the water, Jack. That’s where hope lives.”

Host: The sunlight poured through the fog, breaking it apart in slow streams of gold. The sea shimmered, and for a moment, everything — the pier, the gulls, the silence, the two of them — glowed with a quiet, almost sacred light.

And there, on the edge of that uncertain morning, Jack cast his line again — not because he believed he would catch anything, but because for the first time in years, he believed it still mattered to try.