Faith has to do with things that are not seen and hope with

Host: The church bell rang softly through the evening mist, its echo blending with the low hum of distant traffic. The city was quiet tonight — not the roaring metropolis it usually was, but a slowed heartbeat of dim alleys, yellow windows, and cold rain whispering down the cobblestones.

Inside a small cathedral café tucked beside an ancient stone chapel, Jack and Jeeny sat by the window, the candlelight trembling between them. The air smelled faintly of coffee, old wood, and wet pavement.

Jack, with his usual grey coat and sharp features, leaned back, his fingers tracing the rim of a half-empty cup. Jeeny, her dark hair slightly damp, cupped her hands around her drink as if it held warmth that the world had forgotten.

The bell stopped ringing, leaving behind a silence so full it could almost be heard.

Jeeny: (softly) “Thomas Aquinas said, ‘Faith has to do with things that are not seen and hope with things that are not at hand.’”

Jack: (without looking up) “He also said a lot about angels dancing on pins. I’m not sure how that helps us pay the rent.”

Host: The candle flame flickered at his sarcasm, a small rebellion of light against cynicism. Jeeny smiled faintly — not amused, but patient, the way someone smiles at a child who’s pretending not to hurt.

Jeeny: “You know that’s not what he meant. He wasn’t talking about religion — not really. He was talking about trust. About believing in what can’t yet be proven.”

Jack: “Believing in ghosts, you mean.”

Jeeny: “Believing in tomorrow.”

Host: The rain tapped faster on the windowpane, like fingers impatient for truth. Jack finally looked up, his eyes cold but alive — stormy grey, like metal that’s been through fire.

Jack: “Tomorrow doesn’t care what you believe. People hope, people pray, and still the world burns. Faith doesn’t rebuild cities or feed children. Actions do.”

Jeeny: “But faith drives those actions. It’s what keeps people from collapsing when the city’s already in ashes. Without faith, you’d never even get up.”

Jack: “That’s desperation, not faith.”

Jeeny: “It’s the same seed — you just call it by a colder name.”

Host: A long silence stretched between them. Outside, the streetlight reflected in puddles, painting small, golden circles of fragile hope.

Jack: “You talk as if belief changes things. Look at history, Jeeny — people believed the world was flat. They believed sickness came from sin. Faith can mislead as easily as it can guide.”

Jeeny: “And science can destroy as easily as it can heal. The danger isn’t in believing — it’s in forgetting why you believe. Faith isn’t blind obedience. It’s endurance.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glimmered, steady and deep like a river. Jack’s jaw tightened; he wanted to argue — he always did — but something in her tone made him pause.

Jack: “Endurance,” he repeated. “You mean lying to yourself long enough to survive?”

Jeeny: “No. I mean seeing through the dark before light exists. Hope isn’t about having; it’s about waiting without losing yourself.”

Host: The candlelight flickered again, reflected in the wet glass, and for a heartbeat, their faces seemed to merge — his weary logic, her luminous faith.

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But what about when there’s nothing left to hope for? When the hospital says there’s no chance, or the war takes everyone you love? You still think faith means anything then?”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Especially then.”

Host: Her voice trembled but didn’t break. The café felt smaller suddenly, as if her words filled every corner. Jack stared at her, his eyes flickering with something that wasn’t anger — it was memory.

Jack: “You remember my brother,” he said after a while. “He believed the same thing. Even when the doctors said he’d never walk again. He said, ‘Faith isn’t a cure — it’s the courage to keep trying.’ I laughed at him. But he learned to walk. Slowly, painfully, step by step. I called it science, therapy. He called it grace.”

Jeeny: “And maybe it was both.”

Host: A drop of rain rolled down the window, catching the light as it fell — like a tear that had learned to shine.

Jack: (softly) “I still don’t see the difference between faith and delusion.”

Jeeny: “Then you haven’t looked long enough.”

Jack: “You think it’s a virtue to wait for what might never come?”

Jeeny: “It’s not waiting — it’s living as if it will come. There’s a difference. Aquinas said faith is about what isn’t seen, but he didn’t mean blind faith. He meant seeing with the heart before the eyes can confirm it. That’s not illusion — that’s creation.”

Host: Her words landed like a slow tide — washing away the cynicism without force, only persistence. The candle leaned toward her breath, trembling in quiet reverence.

Jack: “Creation? You mean pretending until reality catches up?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes pretending is the first act of building. Hope is the blueprint of what doesn’t exist yet.”

Host: Jack laughed softly — not mockingly, but as if conceding something small but real. His shoulders loosened. The sound of rain softened.

Jack: “You talk like faith is a kind of rebellion.”

Jeeny: “It is. The quietest kind. It refuses to surrender to what the eyes can see.”

Host: For a moment, their silence was deeper than speech. The café door creaked as someone left; a small bell chimed above it, like a benediction. Jack looked toward the empty chapel through the window — the candles flickering there, the faint outline of the cross.

Jack: “You really believe something’s out there… something watching?”

Jeeny: “Not watching. Listening.”

Jack: “And if there’s nothing?”

Jeeny: “Then at least we lived believing something beautiful. Isn’t that worth something?”

Host: The rain stopped. The streetlamp outside grew brighter, its light spilling into the room, pooling on their table. Jack stared at it — the way the flame in the wax seemed to echo it, two small fires surviving in their own way.

Jack: (after a long pause) “Maybe that’s what hope really is. Not the promise of tomorrow — just the refusal to let tonight win.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: She smiled — a small, tired, human smile. Jack returned it, barely, but it was enough. The church bells began again, distant, serene.

Host: And as the sound rolled through the wet city, it carried with it something invisible yet undeniable — the fragile proof of Aquinas’ truth: that faith belongs to what we cannot see, and hope to what we have not yet touched… yet both live fiercely inside the hearts of those who still dare to believe.

Host: The camera would rise then, up through the window, over the quiet chapel, the rooftops, and into the pale night sky, where the rainclouds finally broke to reveal a single star — unseen minutes ago, but always there, waiting.