Even with, or perhaps, because of, this background, I have over

Host: The wind from the Gulf of St. Lawrence carried the scent of salt, pine, and memory. The evening sky hung low over the red cliffs of Prince Edward Island, brushed with a faint mist that made the horizon shimmer like a half-remembered dream.

Down by a quiet harbor café, fishermen’s boats rocked in their berths, their ropes creaking like old voices recalling the past. Inside, Jack and Jeeny sat at a corner table, its wood rough and sea-worn, a lantern between them casting gold light across their faces.

The radio hummed with a local news broadcast, something about new developments, tech hubs, and tourism projects — the “modernization of the island.”

Jeeny sipped her coffee, her eyes thoughtful. Jack leaned back, staring out at the darkening shore.

Jack: “You know, I read Alex Campbell’s old speech again today. He said he’d sensed a ‘dramatic change in attitude’ among Islanders toward modernization. I can’t help but wonder — was that a warning or a confession?”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. He came from this soil, remember. He knew the cost of trying to make an old world new again.”

Host: The lantern flame flickered, casting shadows that danced like the ghosts of those who once fished, farmed, and built their lives by hand.

Jack: “You think it’s a cost? I think it’s an evolution. The world can’t stay a postcard forever, Jeeny. People need opportunity. Modernization isn’t a threat — it’s progress.”

Jeeny: “Progress for who, Jack? For the ones who can afford it? Or for the ones who get left behind in the shadow of it?”

Jack: “Left behind? Come on. You’ve seen what change brings — schools, hospitals, connectivity, jobs. This isn’t about greed; it’s about survival.”

Jeeny: “Survival isn’t the same as living. There’s a difference between improving life and erasing it.”

Host: Outside, a wave crashed against the rocks, the sound deep and solemn, as if the island itself had spoken.

Jack: “You romanticize the past, Jeeny. You talk like every barn, every fishing net, every dirt road is sacred. But nostalgia doesn’t build bridges or keep youth from leaving.”

Jeeny: “And ambition doesn’t replace roots, Jack. It’s not nostalgia to want to remember who we are while we grow. Campbell saw it — this rush to become something we’re not.”

Jack: “So what do you want, then? To keep things the way they were? To freeze the island in amber? People here deserve the future, not a museum.”

Jeeny: “No, not a museum. A memory that breathes. There’s a difference. Modernization that respects tradition — that’s what’s missing. It’s not about stopping change, it’s about guiding it.”

Host: The rain began to fall, soft, deliberate, each drop echoing off the windowpane. The light from the lantern flickered, and their faces shifted between shadow and flame.

Jack: “You sound like one of those local activists who fight every development. ‘Keep our island pure,’ right? But purity doesn’t feed people.”

Jeeny: “Purity isn’t the point. Identity is. When you build too fast, you forget the soul of the place. Look at what happened in parts of Nova Scotia, or even Iceland — tourism made them rich but hollow. Culture turned into a commodity.”

Jack: “And yet those places are thriving, Jeeny. People have healthcare, education, opportunity. What’s wrong with that?”

Jeeny: “Because it’s not thriving if you lose your language, your stories, your values. The Islanders Campbell talked about — they weren’t afraid of change, they were afraid of forgetting.”

Host: Her voice trembled, but not from weakness — from the weight of what she felt. Jack watched her, his expression softening, the cynicism in his eyes cracking like ice under sunlight.

Jack: “You make it sound like progress is a form of betrayal.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it is. When modernization comes without meaning, it’s not progress — it’s replacement.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming on the roof like an old heartbeat — steady, unrelenting.

Jack: “So what, then? We just stop? Stay simple, stay small, stay stuck?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. We move forward — but we carry our past with us. The land, the accent, the humility, the community — that’s our compass. Lose that, and no amount of technology will find us again.”

Host: Her words lingered like smoke, and for a moment, even the rain seemed to listen. Jack looked down, his fingers tracing the grain of the table, the lines worn smooth by years of hands that once built boats and mended nets.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I couldn’t wait to leave this place. I thought the world was bigger somewhere else. But now I come back, and I can’t recognize it anymore. Maybe that’s what Campbell meant… the attitude changed because the island did.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not that people stopped believing in the future, Jack — they just started mourning what was lost to reach it.”

Host: A lull. The lantern flame calmed, steady again. Outside, the rain slowed, the sky clearing to reveal the faint light of the moon.

Jack: “Maybe we’re all just trying to find balance — between roots and wings.”

Jeeny: “That’s it. Modernization isn’t the enemy. Forgetfulness is.”

Host: The harbor reflected the moonlight, the boats swaying gently, tied but still floating free. Jack looked out, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jack: “You think the island still remembers?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s trying to. Through every story, every song, every child who still calls it home.”

Host: And as the camera of the mind pulled back, the scene widened — over the harbor, the homes, the red fields — a place both ancient and new, caught between heritage and hunger, between progress and peace.

The lantern inside the café flickered once more, then settled, steady, like a heartbeat that had found its rhythm again.

Jack and Jeeny sat quietly, listening to the sea, as if it were telling them that perhaps modernization, too, could have a soul —
if only the people who built it remembered where their roots began.