Each year on the anniversary of Martin Luther King Jr.'s birth

Host: The city was wrapped in quiet winter light, the kind of pale blue glow that makes every shadow seem thoughtful. The streets were lined with flags, and the distant sound of a marching band drifted faintly from downtown — not loud, not triumphant, but ceremonial, respectful. The air carried the smell of coffee, cold iron, and memory.

Inside a small diner near the Capitol, Jack and Jeeny sat by the window, watching people walk past — some in coats and scarves, others carrying signs that read “The Dream Lives”. On the wall above the counter hung a portrait of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., his gaze firm yet compassionate, his expression timeless in its calm defiance.

Beneath the portrait, someone had written a quote in chalk on the menu board:
“Each year on the anniversary of Martin Luther King Jr.'s birth, America has the opportunity to reflect on our nation's progress towards the realization of his dream.” — Adam Schiff

Jeeny: (watching the march outside) “You know, reflection is supposed to be quiet, but every year it gets louder. Speeches, protests, tweets. Everyone claiming his dream.”

Host: Her voice was measured, almost sad — not with despair, but with the exhaustion of repetition.

Jack: “That’s the thing about dreams, Jeeny. The more unrealized they are, the more people need to shout them into being.”

Jeeny: “But shouting doesn’t always wake us up.”

Jack: “No. Sometimes it just drowns out the silence where honesty should live.”

Host: A group of young people walked past the window, linking arms, singing “We Shall Overcome.” Their breath rose in clouds against the cold air — defiant and fragile at once.

Jeeny: “Schiff’s right about reflection. But reflection without repentance isn’t progress — it’s ritual.”

Jack: “Ritual makes people feel good about standing still.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The waitress poured them fresh coffee, her eyes lingering for a second on the portrait above them before she moved away — the smallest acknowledgment of reverence.

Jack: “You think we’ve made progress?”

Jeeny: “We’ve made motion. But progress? That’s harder to claim. It’s not the same thing.”

Jack: “Motion’s easy. You can move in circles and still call it change.”

Jeeny: “And America loves motion. It photographs better than accountability.”

Host: Outside, the marchers stopped at a traffic light. A child on his father’s shoulders waved a small flag, its edges frayed, its stars catching the light like small promises.

Jeeny: “I read King’s ‘I Have a Dream’ speech again last night. Every time I do, it feels new. And that’s both beautiful and tragic — because it means we still need it.”

Jack: “We always will. His dream wasn’t a deadline; it was a direction.”

Jeeny: “True. But sometimes I think we use that direction as an excuse to never arrive.”

Jack: “You mean we’re addicted to the journey.”

Jeeny: “No, we’re addicted to the illusion of journey. To talking about how far we’ve come without admitting how far we have to go.”

Host: The sound of the marching band grew louder now, filling the diner with the muffled rhythm of drums — steady, determined, like a heartbeat echoing across decades.

Jack: “You ever think about what he’d say if he saw all this now?”

Jeeny: “He’d probably still be marching. Still preaching. Still reminding us that civility without justice is just manners pretending to be morality.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “And that silence is still the enemy.”

Jeeny: “Especially the polite kind.”

Host: A heavy pause followed — the kind that doesn’t demand words because both people already know them.

Jack: “Schiff’s quote talks about opportunity. That’s what the day gives us — a chance. But opportunity without courage means nothing.”

Jeeny: “Courage to do what?”

Jack: “To be uncomfortable. To see what’s broken and not look away just because it’s old or complicated.”

Jeeny: “And to stop using ‘progress’ as a shield.”

Jack: “Yeah. We like to call things ‘better’ just because they’re not as bad.”

Host: The door opened, letting in a gust of cold air and a man carrying a sign that read “The Dream Deferred is Still a Dream.” He nodded at them as he passed, his footsteps leaving wet prints on the tile floor.

Jeeny: “You know, reflection isn’t just looking back. It’s looking in. That’s what King asked of America — not nostalgia, but introspection.”

Jack: “But self-examination’s harder than celebration.”

Jeeny: “That’s why we do more of the second.”

Host: The waitress returned, setting down the check quietly. On the corner of the receipt, she’d drawn a small heart — unnoticed, almost sacred in its simplicity.

Jack: “I think about the word ‘dream.’ It sounds soft, but his wasn’t. It was iron wrapped in grace.”

Jeeny: “He dreamed like a soldier prays — knowing the cost but believing anyway.”

Jack: “And that’s what reflection should be. Not comfort, but confrontation.”

Host: She looked up at the portrait again, the way people sometimes look at stained glass — searching for light through color.

Jeeny: “He once said, ‘Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.’ That’s not poetry. That’s policy disguised as prophecy.”

Jack: “And prophecy always sounds impossible until hindsight makes it convenient.”

Host: Outside, the marchers had reached the end of the street, gathering in front of the courthouse. Their voices rose together, singing again — older now, but still alive.

Jeeny: “Maybe progress isn’t measured in laws or speeches, but in the spaces between hearts. The smaller that space, the closer we get to his dream.”

Jack: “And maybe reflection is just that — measuring the distance between what we are and what we promised to be.”

Jeeny: “And realizing that every year, the dream still asks us to shorten it.”

Host: The light outside began to change — sunset spilling gold across the snow, making even the cracked sidewalks glow for a moment.

Jack: “You know, I used to think reflection was passive. But maybe it’s the bravest thing we can do — to look honestly and still believe in better.”

Jeeny: “That’s what faith looks like when it grows up.”

Host: They stood to leave. The crowd outside had begun to disperse, but the sound of singing lingered, low and persistent, like something too sacred to fade completely.

Jeeny looked once more at the portrait on the wall.

Jeeny: “Each year we’re given the chance to reflect. Maybe one year, if we do it right, we’ll no longer need the reminder.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the day the dream becomes a memory — not because it died, but because it came true.”

Host: They stepped out into the evening. The air was cold, but the sky burned with light — soft, forgiving, alive.

And as the last notes of the song dissolved into dusk, Adam Schiff’s words seemed to echo in every window, every breath, every heart that dared to remember:

that reflection is not nostalgia but duty,
that progress is not comfort but courage,
and that the truest way to honor a dream
is not to quote it —
but to continue it.

The sun slipped behind the buildings, leaving the world gilded in the last light of remembrance —
a promise that the dream was still marching,
still calling,
and still possible.