I grew up in a small, strictly-Catholic fishing village on the

Host: The wind swept over the Welsh cliffs, heavy with salt and mist, carrying the sound of distant waves crashing against the rocks. The sky hung low, painted in shades of slate and silver, like a memory that refused to fade. A small village lay below, its rooftops glistening from the morning drizzle, its streets empty except for the occasional fisherman hauling his nets. In the corner boathouse, a dim light flickered against wooden walls. Inside, Jack and Jeeny sat facing each other across a rough table, two mugs of coffee steaming between them.

Jack’s hands were folded, his grey eyes staring out toward the sea — the same sea that had taken and given life to this place. Jeeny’s hair, dark and damp, clung to her cheeks as she watched him, her expression a mix of tenderness and quiet resolve.

Jeeny: “Do you ever think,” she began softly, her voice barely louder than the rain, “that we’ve lost something in the way we live now? Catherine Zeta-Jones once said she grew up in a small, strictly-Catholic fishing village here in Wales, and that people there had a different attitude — that they stuck together more. I think she was right.”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “You mean the whole village soul thing? Everyone knowing everyone else’s secrets, pretending to be saints while judging each other behind closed doors?”

Host: The rain grew heavier, drumming against the roof. Jack’s tone carried that familiar edge of cynicism, but his eyes betrayed something softer — the kind of nostalgia that hides beneath armor.

Jeeny: “That’s not what I meant. It’s about belonging, Jack. About the kind of closeness that can’t exist in a city like London or Hollywood. When something goes wrong, people come together, not drift apart.”

Jack: “Sure. Until there’s a scandal. Until the fisherman’s son gets someone pregnant, or someone stops going to church. Then that so-called community turns on its own. Don’t romanticize it.”

Jeeny: “You’re talking about hypocrisy, not faith. Every place has its flaws, but those flaws don’t erase its humanity. In small villages, people see each other. They share the same storms, the same bread, the same sorrows. You can’t buy that kind of bond.”

Host: A gust of wind pushed through the doorframe, and the lamp flame wavered, casting their faces into brief shadows. The smell of salt filled the air. Jack leaned forward, his jaw tense, his fingers tapping on the table.

Jack: “You think proximity equals compassion? People in those tight-knit towns stick together because they have to, not because they choose to. It’s survival, not virtue. You depend on your neighbor because if his boat sinks, your family might starve too. That’s not moral unity — that’s shared risk.”

Jeeny: “And what’s wrong with that, Jack? Isn’t shared risk exactly what binds us as humans? We’ve just forgotten it. You call it survival — I call it solidarity.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glimmered with fervor, her voice gaining weight. The sound of the waves punctuated her words like a heartbeat. Jack looked at her, his brows furrowing, as if searching for a flaw in her conviction.

Jack: “Solidarity fades with distance, Jeeny. That’s the truth. Look at modern society — we’ve built systems that make individuals obsolete. Machines do the work, algorithms decide what we see. No one needs anyone anymore. That’s progress. Cold, maybe, but efficient.”

Jeeny: “Efficient?” Her voice cracked slightly. “Tell that to the millions who feel invisible in cities. The old woman in a high-rise flat who dies and isn’t found for weeks. The kid who eats dinner alone because his parents are working late. Efficiency killed empathy.”

Host: Her words struck like a sudden wave — loud, immediate, and full of ache. The room fell silent except for the steady hiss of rain. Jack’s hand paused mid-tap.

Jack: “You’re mixing sentiment with sociology. I’m not saying it’s good that people are lonely — I’m saying it’s inevitable. The world grew. Populations exploded. You can’t have village morals in a global economy. You adapt, or you vanish.”

Jeeny: “But do you even hear yourself? ‘Adapt or vanish’? That’s the kind of thinking that justifies everything — exploitation, alienation, even war. The Nazis adapted too, Jack. Efficiency was their god.”

Host: The lamp flame flared, a sudden glow over Jeeny’s face, her eyes fierce, almost shaking with emotion. Jack’s jaw tightened — not in anger, but in the quiet shock of being confronted by truth.

Jack: “That’s not fair. You’re comparing technology and social evolution to atrocities.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m comparing the philosophy behind them. When you remove compassion from survival, you get cruelty disguised as logic.”

Host: A long pause followed. The rain softened, and somewhere outside, a seagull cried, its voice echoing over the harbor. The tension in the room shifted, no longer sharp — just heavy, like the air before dawn.

Jack: (quietly) “You make it sound simple. But what about ambition? What about wanting more than the village can give? People like Catherine Zeta-Jones left because small places can’t hold big dreams. If everyone stayed ‘together,’ no one would become anything.”

Jeeny: “You’re right. Some must leave. But the tragedy is when they forget where they came from. Leaving doesn’t mean abandoning. It means carrying your roots into new soil.”

Jack: “And what if the roots are too shallow? What if they choke you?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe they weren’t roots — just ropes of expectation.”

Host: The rain had stopped. A beam of light broke through the window, touching the steam above their cups, turning it golden. Jack’s eyes softened, the usual defiance slipping into something quieter — a kind of weary understanding.

Jack: “You really believe people stick together more in small places?”

Jeeny: “I believe they remember each other better. And sometimes that memory is worth more than progress.”

Host: Jack turned the mug slowly in his hands, staring into the black coffee as if it could answer something. He thought of the village he grew up in — the faces now blurred by time, the church bell that used to call them all together on Sundays, the fields where they’d played as children. He’d left to escape it, yet here he was, haunted by its absence.

Jack: “Maybe… maybe that’s what scares me. That the more we move forward, the lonelier we get.”

Jeeny: “Then stop running so far ahead.”

Host: A faint smile appeared on Jeeny’s lips, not of triumph, but of quiet sadness. Jack looked up, and for the first time that evening, he smiled too — a rare, honest one. Outside, the clouds began to break, revealing a strip of blue along the horizon.

Jeeny: “You know, my grandmother used to say the sea teaches people loyalty. Because no one survives it alone.”

Jack: “Maybe she was right.” (he leaned back, gazing at the horizon) “Maybe Hollywood forgot that.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — wide — to show the coastline, the boats, the village cradled between cliffs and sky. The light warmed everything, the air still humming with salt and memory. Two souls, once divided by ideals, now sat quietly — not agreeing, but understanding.

Host: And as the waves rose and fell, it was as if the world itself whispered: Progress builds walls. Memory builds bridges.