Ever since I was a little lad, the sun has seemed to shine during

Host: The morning unfolded like a quiet film reel — the countryside painted in gold, dew clinging to the grass, and the sky wide and blue, a canvas of gentle perfection. A wooden café sat on the edge of a small lake, its deck bathed in sunlight.

Birdsong drifted through the air, mingling with the soft hum of conversation and the clink of cutlery. Jack sat outside, his coffee steaming, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his eyes narrowed toward the horizon where the water reflected the sun. Jeeny arrived, carrying a small box, her smile bright, her footsteps light, yet her heart carrying a quiet tension — the kind that only memory can create.

Jeeny: “Happy early birthday, Jack.”

Jack: (smirking) “You’re two days early. That’s cheating.”

Jeeny: “You never like surprises on the actual day.”

Jack: “Because birthdays are overrated. It’s just a yearly reminder that time’s still running faster than me.”

Host: She sat across from him, the sunlight catching in her hair, framing her like a soft halo. The lake rippled, reflecting the sky’s mood, and for a moment, the world felt suspended — like it was waiting for a confession.

Jeeny: “You know, John Whaite once said, ‘Ever since I was a little lad, the sun has seemed to shine during my birthday weekend.’ I think some people just carry that kind of luck with them.”

Jack: “Or maybe they just remember the good weather and forget the storms.”

Jeeny: “You don’t believe the sun chooses favorites?”

Jack: “No. I believe some people make their own light — and the rest of us just try to stand near it for warmth.”

Jeeny: “That’s… oddly poetic for you.”

Jack: “Don’t get used to it.”

Host: The waitress passed, setting a plate of pastries between them. Steam rose from the coffee, curling into the air like unfinished prayers. A light breeze lifted a few napkins, dancing them across the table.

Jeeny’s eyes were fixed on him — on the lines near his mouth, the shadows under his eyes. He was a man of sunsets, not mornings, and yet here he was, glowing in sunlight he didn’t know how to accept.

Jeeny: “You make it sound sad — that people like Whaite are just lucky. Maybe it’s not about luck. Maybe it’s about belief. Maybe the sun keeps shining because he expects it to.”

Jack: “That’s the kind of optimism that sells calendars, not truth.”

Jeeny: “You don’t think our attitude shapes what finds us?”

Jack: “If that were true, half the world would be living in paradise by now. No — the sun shines when it wants to. You just happen to be standing there.”

Jeeny: “But what if standing there — choosing to be there — is the point?”

Host: Her voice shimmered with that stubborn hope that Jack both admired and feared. The sun caught her words and turned them to gold dust in the air.

Jack leaned back, watching the light move across the table, touching his hands, warming the skin that had once only known cold.

Jack: “When I was a kid, every birthday rained. Every damn one. The kind of rain that soaks through everything — even your mood. My mom used to light candles early, just to make it look brighter inside.”

Jeeny: “And did it help?”

Jack: “Not really. You can’t fake sunlight, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can choose to be it.”

Jack: “You think it’s that easy?”

Jeeny: “Not easy. Just necessary.”

Host: A pause stretched between them. The lake glittered, a mirror of possibility. A duck landed, breaking the surface into a hundred rings of light — like time itself, rippling, repeating, expanding.

Jeeny: “You’ve been chasing the next thing for years — the next job, the next project, the next flight. Maybe that’s why it’s always raining in your head.”

Jack: “You think stopping would make the sun come out?”

Jeeny: “No. But slowing down might help you notice when it already is.”

Jack: “You’re saying I’m blind to happiness.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I’m saying you’ve forgotten what it looks like.”

Host: Jack’s hand tightened around his coffee cup. His reflection in the black liquid wavered, distorted by the steam. There was truth in her words, and he hated that. Because she was right. He had been running — not toward joy, but away from stillness.

The sunlight shifted, casting a shadow across his face, like a memory trying to hide.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve just learned not to expect light. That way, when it comes, I can appreciate it.”

Jeeny: “That’s not appreciation. That’s survival.”

Jack: “Same thing.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Survival keeps you alive. Appreciation makes you human.”

Host: Her words landed with the soft weight of truth. Jack looked out at the water, and for a moment, he saw his younger self — a boy with a birthday cake, candles flickering in the dark, rain tapping the roof. And behind him, his mother, smiling through the storm. He had forgotten that part. He had forgotten the warmth that had always been there, even when the sky refused to cooperate.

Jack: “Maybe the sun was shining all along, Jeeny. I just wasn’t looking in the right direction.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Now that sounds like the man I came to see.”

Jack: “Don’t get sentimental. It’s bad for your posture.”

Jeeny: “And cynicism is bad for your heart.”

Jack: “Fair trade.”

Host: They both laughed, the sound carrying across the lake, soft, unhurried, like the breeze joining in. The moment broke open into something gentle, something earned.

Jeeny opened the small box she’d brought — inside, a tiny glass ornament of a sun, handmade, imperfect, but radiant.

Jeeny: “Here. For your window. So you never forget — sometimes the sun’s waiting for you to open the curtains.”

Jack: “You really think it’ll work?”

Jeeny: “It already is.”

Host: The camera pulled back — the two figures on the wooden deck, surrounded by light, reflected on the water, mirrored in the sky. The sun hung above them, steadfast, gentle, eternal, as if answering Whaite’s words — that some souls carry their own weather.

And for the first time in years, Jack didn’t need to chase the light. It was already on him.

End Scene.