Good words are worth much, and cost little.

Host: The evening rain fell in fine, silver threads, coating the glass of the small café with shimmering, melancholic light. Streetlights flickered like old memories, and the faint hum of passing cars blurred into a soothing rhythm. Inside, warmth clung to the air — the scent of coffee, the quiet buzz of a lone radio, the steam rising from two untouched cups. Jack sat by the window, his grey eyes fixed on the world outside. Across from him, Jeeny sat with her hands folded, calm yet intent, her brown eyes full of quiet fire.

Host: Between them lay a single sentence written on a napkin — “Good words are worth much, and cost little.” George Herbert’s truth, waiting to be unpacked.

Jack: (leaning back) “It’s a beautiful line, isn’t it? But like most beautiful things, it’s naïve. Words don’t cost nothing, Jeeny. They cost time, energy, and sometimes… dignity.”

Jeeny: (softly) “They cost nothing compared to the damage that silence brings, Jack. A kind word can lift someone’s soul, make them feel seen — that doesn’t cost money, just empathy.”

Host: The lamplight above them flickered, casting shadows over Jack’s angular face. His jaw tightened, as though resisting a memory.

Jack: “Empathy doesn’t pay rent. You can speak all the good words you want — but in the real world, people need action, not pretty phrases. Words are cheap when life’s brutal.”

Jeeny: “And yet, people have lived entire lives chasing a single word of kindness. Do you remember that story about Lincoln? During the Civil War, a soldier’s mother begged for her son’s pardon. Lincoln’s words — just a few lines — saved his life. That wasn’t cheap, Jack. That was grace.”

Host: The wind rattled the windowpane. A drop of rain slipped down the glass, tracing its own path, like a slow tear.

Jack: (with a faint smirk) “Lincoln was President. His words had power. The rest of us? We’re just echoes. You think saying something nice in a café changes anything?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not the world, but maybe the moment. And moments become memories, Jack. Sometimes that’s all we have — the memory of someone who spoke with kindness when they didn’t have to.”

Host: Jack’s hand reached for his coffee, then stopped midway. His reflection in the window looked older than thirty-five — a man carved from disappointment and pragmatism.

Jeeny: (leaning forward) “Do you know what’s funny? We spend so much money chasing things that fade — cars, watches, clothes — but we hesitate to give the one thing that lasts: gentle words.”

Jack: “Because gentle words can be lies. You can comfort someone today and betray them tomorrow. Words make promises that people can’t keep.”

Jeeny: “Then that’s not the fault of words, but of hearts that don’t mean them. A word only costs little if it’s true. The value lies in sincerity, not in the sound.”

Host: Her voice trembled — not from weakness, but from conviction. The café’s light seemed to soften, wrapping around her like warm cloth. Outside, the rain began to ease, the sky faintly bruised by the promise of dawn.

Jack: (dryly) “You make it sound like everyone’s heart is a well of gold. But most are just empty buckets — making noise when struck.”

Jeeny: (sharply) “And yet even an empty bucket can carry water, if someone bothers to fill it. Isn’t that what good words do? They fill the emptiness?”

Host: A brief silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft clinking of a spoon against porcelain. The tension in the air was fragile, like glass between breaths.

Jack: “You ever seen what flattery does to a person? I’ve seen managers praise their workers while planning layoffs behind closed doors. Those ‘good words’ are weapons, Jeeny — polite daggers. Sometimes silence is more honest.”

Jeeny: “Then you’re confusing truth with cruelty. Good words aren’t flattery. They’re not manipulation. They’re choice — a decision to build, not break. Even in war, people knew the power of words. Think of Churchill — his speeches didn’t win battles, but they kept people standing when bombs fell.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flickered — not in agreement, but in a reluctant memory. His father’s voice, once stern, now faded with time, echoed somewhere inside him: “You don’t need to be rich to be kind.”

Jack: (quietly) “You really think words alone can change people?”

Jeeny: “I think they already have. Every revolution, every prayer, every confession — all started with a word. A word of hope, or love, or even defiance.”

Jack: (gritting his teeth) “And every war started with one too.”

Host: Her eyes softened. She didn’t answer right away. The rain outside had stopped, and in its absence, the silence felt heavier.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point, Jack. Words are weapons and medicine both. But the choice — always — is ours. ‘Good words,’ Herbert said, not just any words.”

Jack: (nodding slightly) “So you’re saying the intention matters more than the expression?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. A single word — sorry, thank you, I care — can heal years of distance. But only if it’s meant.”

Host: Jack’s fingers traced the edge of the napkin with the quote. The ink had bled slightly from a drop of condensation, blurring the word worth. His voice dropped, quieter now.

Jack: “When my brother died, people sent messages. Dozens of them. ‘Condolences,’ ‘thoughts and prayers,’ ‘he’s in a better place.’ None of it meant anything. Just words.”

Jeeny: (softly) “And did any of them stay with you?”

Jack: (after a pause) “One. From an old friend. She just wrote: ‘I can’t say anything that helps. But I’m here.’ That one… stayed.”

Host: A small smile broke through Jeeny’s sadness. It was the kind of smile that understood pain without trying to erase it.

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’ve proven the quote yourself. Words don’t have to fix everything — they just have to be real.”

Jack: (exhaling) “Maybe. Maybe Herbert was right. Maybe the good ones — the honest ones — don’t cost much. It’s the empty ones that do.”

Host: The café grew quiet, the last customer leaving, the doorbell chiming softly. The rainclouds had broken apart, letting in a pale blue light that spread across the table, turning the napkin into a small island of brightness.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? The world doesn’t need more noise — it needs more words that mean something. Even if they’re small. Even if they’re whispered.”

Jack: “You think that’s enough to change anything?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not everything. But maybe someone. And that’s where every change begins.”

Host: Jack’s eyes lifted toward the window, catching the first glow of morning spilling between the buildings. His expression softened — the cynicism fading, replaced by something quieter, more uncertain, almost human.

Jack: “Alright. Then here’s my first good word, Jeeny. Thanks — for not giving up on the argument.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And here’s mine, Jack — for listening.”

Host: Outside, the city began to wake — distant horns, the smell of wet asphalt, the faint laughter of a child echoing down the street. Inside, two cups of cold coffee sat untouched, yet something warm had settled between them — an invisible bridge made of simple, honest words.

Host: As the light grew stronger, it fell over the napkin once more. The ink had dried now. The words still clear, still true:
“Good words are worth much, and cost little.”

Host: And for the first time, Jack believed it.