I didn't start auditioning until my 10th birthday when I

Host: The morning light was pale and deliberate, spilling through the windows of an old theatre like a quiet secret. Dust danced in the golden rays, each mote turning slowly, weightless as a dream. Rows of velvet seats stretched toward a stage, empty now except for the ghostly outlines of footprints worn into its wooden floor — echoes of laughter, music, and hope.

Jack stood near the front row, hands in his coat pockets, his eyes drawn to the curtains, half-draped, their red fabric glowing like sleeping embers. Jeeny was already onstage, barefoot, spinning slowly under the beam of a single spotlight. Her hair caught the light, black and soft, her movement silent but full of presence — as though she was speaking through motion.

Host: The air smelled of sawdust, stage paint, and memory. Outside, the faint chatter of a Saturday street hummed, but here — time had stilled.

Jeeny: (grinning) “Do you know what Amybeth McNulty said once? ‘I didn’t start auditioning until my 10th birthday when I auditioned for Matilda The Musical in London. It was actually the first time I realized that it was a career I could pursue.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “So the discovery of destiny happened at ten. Most of us were still trying to keep our shoelaces tied.”

Jeeny: “That’s the beauty of it. For her, it wasn’t just about talent. It was the moment she realized her dream could be real. That’s huge — the collision of imagination and possibility.”

Jack: “Or delusion and chance.”

Jeeny: (laughing) “There you go again — the cynic’s chorus.”

Jack: “I just mean — children dream of being astronauts, pop stars, heroes. The world trims those dreams down until they fit the size of a paycheck. Real life doesn’t applaud forever.”

Jeeny: (walking to the edge of the stage) “Maybe not. But it remembers. Every dream begins in innocence. Some fade, but others evolve — they harden, they focus, and that’s where purpose is born.”

Host: The light shifted as a cloud passed. Shadows rolled through the theatre, like a tide of memory washing over the seats.

Jack: “Purpose is overrated. We romanticize it because we hate not knowing. A ten-year-old doesn’t have purpose — she has wonder. And wonder dies fast.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Only if we let it.”

Host: She sat on the edge of the stage, her bare feet brushing the floorboards. Jack moved closer, the old boards creaking beneath him.

Jeeny: “When Amybeth stepped on that stage for her first audition, she didn’t see a career. She saw a possibility — that the stories she loved could be lived. That’s the moment most people forget to chase.”

Jack: “You’re saying the stage gave her permission to dream?”

Jeeny: “No — it reminded her that she didn’t need permission.”

Host: A faint wind stirred through the cracked windows, carrying in the sounds of the world outside — laughter, a car horn, a bird’s call. The contrast felt alive: one world noisy and chaotic, the other hushed and sacred.

Jack: “You talk like theatre’s a temple.”

Jeeny: “It is. A temple for human truth. Every performance is a prayer — not to gods, but to possibility.”

Jack: (with a half-smile) “You’re poetic today.”

Jeeny: “No, just honest. Think about it — the first time you realized you could be something, wasn’t it electric? It changes your entire sense of self. You stop being a passenger.”

Host: Jack’s expression shifted, faintly haunted. The light from the window hit his face in uneven bands — shadow, gold, shadow again.

Jack: “I wanted to be a writer once.”

Jeeny: “What stopped you?”

Jack: (pausing) “Fear. And the realization that stories don’t always pay rent.”

Jeeny: “But they pay in meaning. You traded that for safety?”

Jack: “For survival.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “There’s a difference.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like dust in sunlight — slow, inevitable, honest.

Jack: “You think dreams survive reality?”

Jeeny: “The good ones do. The real ones adapt. Look at Amybeth — she didn’t give up because the odds were impossible. She tried, and trying turned her imagination into identity.”

Jack: “So… what? Every child’s dream is sacred?”

Jeeny: “Not sacred — seeded. Whether it grows depends on how much courage we water it with.”

Host: A faint click echoed as the old stage lights flickered on, one by one, bathing the room in a soft, golden hue. Dust rose, glowing like constellations in motion.

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not easy. It’s terrifying. Auditions, rejection, risk — those are the shadows of every dream. But courage isn’t about avoiding the dark. It’s about dancing in it.”

Host: She stood again, turning toward the seats, her voice stronger now, as though speaking not just to Jack, but to every ghost in the room.

Jeeny: “Amybeth auditioned for Matilda — a story about a girl who refused to be small in a world that told her to shrink. That’s not coincidence, Jack. That’s alignment.”

Jack: “You think destiny works like that? Like the universe is a casting director?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Maybe. Or maybe destiny just waits for us to show up to our own audition.”

Host: Jack laughed — a low, genuine sound that broke the weight in the room.

Jack: “You ever think about what your first audition was?”

Jeeny: “Every day. Mine wasn’t on a stage, though. It was the first time I stood up for someone who couldn’t. That was the moment I realized empathy could be my performance.”

Jack: “And you never stopped playing that role.”

Jeeny: (gently) “It’s not a role, Jack. It’s who I am.”

Host: A long silence followed, not empty, but full — like the pause between heartbeats before a curtain rises.

Jack: “You think I could ever start again? Pick up what I dropped?”

Jeeny: “Only if you stop asking permission from fear.”

Host: The old theatre clock ticked faintly. Somewhere, a loose curtain stirred. The sunlight shifted once more, warmer now, settling over them both.

Jack: (softly) “Then maybe it’s time I auditioned again. Not for a role — for myself.”

Jeeny: “Then break a leg.”

Host: The words fell between them like a benediction. Jack smiled — the kind that carried both sorrow and hope. He stepped onto the stage beside her. The old boards creaked but held.

For a moment, neither spoke. They stood there, faces turned toward the empty seats, their silhouettes framed by light — not performing, but becoming.

Host: The camera pulled back slowly, rising above the theatre. Dust turned to stars, sound to silence. The world outside waited — vast, uncertain, but possible.

And in that fading golden light, Napoleon Hill’s truth found new echo:

That fear limits, but wonder liberates.

That every dream begins not with applause — but with the first small act of belief.

Host: And as the screen dimmed, their figures remained —
two souls, auditioning not for fame,
but for the right to begin again.