Heat cannot be separated from fire, or beauty from The Eternal.

Host: The cathedral burned with candlelight, not from worship, but from wonder. Shadows danced upon stone, and the air hung thick with incense, dust, and the quiet hum of eternity. Outside, a storm gathered — rain whispering against stained glass, thunder rolling like distant applause for something unseen.

At the center pew sat Jack, shoulders bowed, hands clasped not in prayer but in thought. His grey eyes shimmered with restless reflection, like a man standing too close to something sacred but refusing to kneel.

Beside him, Jeeny knelt on the marble floor, tracing the grooves of age-old carvings with her fingertips. Her voice was low, reverent, carrying the hush of someone who believed that silence could speak louder than speech.

The faint glow of a single candle flickered between them — its flame small, but defiant, caught between birth and disappearance.

Jeeny: (softly) “Dante once wrote, ‘Heat cannot be separated from fire, or beauty from The Eternal.’”

Jack: (half-smiles) “He had a way with absolutes.”

Jeeny: “He had a way with truth.”

Jack: “Truth? Or poetry?”

Jeeny: “Same thing — when you’re brave enough to believe it.”

Jack: (leans back, eyes tracing the ceiling) “You think beauty really comes from the eternal? I’ve seen it in things that rot, things that fade.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because decay is the echo of eternity. It’s beauty’s way of reminding us it came from something that doesn’t die.”

Jack: “So you’re saying every crumbling wall, every aging face — that’s divine?”

Jeeny: “Of course. The divine isn’t in perfection. It’s in persistence.”

Host: A gust of wind pushed through the cathedral doors, making the candle flame tremble. The light flickered across Jack’s face, catching the lines of fatigue, the quiet war between cynicism and awe.

The organ pipes above them moaned softly, a draft pulling sound like breath through metal.

Jack: “You know what I think, Jeeny? I think Dante romanticized God because he was afraid of time.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he just saw what time was hiding.”

Jack: “Which is?”

Jeeny: “That everything mortal burns because it wants to remember being infinite.”

Jack: “That’s a pretty sentence.”

Jeeny: “It’s not a sentence. It’s a surrender.”

Jack: “You make it sound like beauty’s not ours to make — like we’re just witnesses.”

Jeeny: “We are. Witnesses, not owners. That’s what Dante meant — you can’t separate the flame from what birthed it.”

Jack: “Then why do we keep trying? Why do we name it, paint it, frame it, sell it?”

Jeeny: (gently) “Because we’re afraid to admit we didn’t create it — only revealed it.”

Host: The storm outside grew heavier, rain streaking down the stained glass like tears through color. Red and gold light scattered across the floor, painting their faces in fleeting holiness.

The candle flickered again, bending low before straightening — fragile, but stubborn.

Jack: “I’ve always thought beauty was a trick. Something evolution made up to make us reproduce or survive.”

Jeeny: “Then why does it still break your heart when there’s no one to see it?”

Jack: (pauses) “Because… maybe it doesn’t need an audience.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Beauty isn’t performance. It’s presence.”

Jack: “But it fades.”

Jeeny: “Only the form does. The essence doesn’t.”

Jack: (leans forward, voice low) “You sound like you’re saying beauty is proof of God.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like you’re scared it might be.”

Host: The thunder cracked — sudden, bright — and the candle’s flame stretched tall in defiance. The shadows rippled across their faces like emotion shifting shape.

Jack rubbed his hands together, warming them over the candle, as if trying to steal something from its glow — heat, faith, or meaning.

Jack: “You know, I envy people who can see eternity in things. For me, beauty’s always felt… temporary. Like music that fades before the final note.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point. The beauty’s in its vanishing. The Eternal is what it points to, not what it replaces.”

Jack: “You mean, the flame reminds you of the fire?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The spark reminds you there’s something that can’t be put out.”

Jack: “Then what about love? Same rule?”

Jeeny: “Especially love. The most divine thing we’ll ever touch — and it burns.”

Jack: (softly) “And we call that beautiful.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s proof that even mortals can borrow the divine for a heartbeat.”

Host: The rain slowed, turning into a gentle tapping. The candle’s flame steadied again, now calm — as if even fire knew when to listen. The cathedral air was still, holding something sacred, suspended.

A ray of lightning briefly illuminated the old fresco on the ceiling — angels ascending, their faces blurred by centuries, their outlines worn by devotion and weather.

Jack: “You think Dante found peace believing that beauty can’t be separated from the eternal?”

Jeeny: “No. I think he found longing. And maybe that’s what peace really is — the ache of being near what you’ll never own.”

Jack: “You make it sound painful.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every glimpse of the eternal hurts, because it reminds us how small we are — and how much we can still feel.”

Jack: (quietly) “You know, I’ve spent my whole life looking for permanence. Maybe I should’ve been looking for presence.”

Jeeny: “Now you’re starting to sound like Dante.”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “That’s not a compliment.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s an awakening.”

Host: The camera would drift upward, catching the candle’s flame reflected in the marble floor, doubled — one real, one illusion. The sound of their breathing was soft, steady.

The candle’s shadow reached across the pews like a hand trying to touch heaven.

Jack: “You know what I realized just now?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “Every artist is trying to paint God without admitting it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Even the ones who don’t believe.”

Jack: “Especially them.”

Jeeny: “Because disbelief is just faith wounded.”

Jack: (nods slowly) “And beauty is the bandage.”

Jeeny: “And fire — is the proof we can still feel warmth in the dark.”

Host: The storm outside quieted, leaving behind the scent of wet stone and the echo of something eternal. The candle burned lower now, its flame shrinking but unbroken, its wax pooling like memory at its base.

Jack and Jeeny sat in silence — not thinking, not speaking — just being.

The hush between them wasn’t absence. It was revelation.

And as the scene faded, Dante’s words lingered like the afterglow of prayer —

that heat cannot be separated from fire,
nor beauty from The Eternal.

That all things bright and brief
are only the echoes of forever,
the fingerprints of divinity
left on mortal hands.

And that the soul’s deepest hunger
is not for more answers,
but for more awe —

for the unending wonder
of being able to feel the infinite
through something fleeting,
to touch eternity
through the shimmer of a moment,
and to know —

even for an instant —

that fire and beauty
were never ours to hold,
only ours to remember.