I have a strong belief that there is a god or a higher power. I

Host: The night was heavy with mist, curling through the narrow streets like the breath of unseen ghosts. A single streetlamp flickered over the entrance of an old train station café, its light reflecting off wet cobblestones. Inside, time seemed slower — a faint radio hummed in the background, and the smell of black coffee hung like a quiet promise.

Jack sat by the window, coat collar turned up, his eyes distant. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea absently, her face glowing in the amber light. Beyond the glass, trains slid by in the distance, their rumble a heartbeat against the city’s sleep.

Jeeny: “Alana Stewart once said, ‘I have a strong belief that there is a God or a higher power. I think that if you have a strong belief in that, then you won't feel alone in life and you will feel you can get through anything.’”

Jack: “Hmm.” He leaned back, exhaling smoke from a half-burnt cigarette. “Belief as insulation. That’s what it sounds like to me.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s not insulation — it’s connection. It’s knowing there’s something greater than your pain. Something that listens when no one else does.”

Jack: “Or something you invent to make loneliness bearable.”

Jeeny: “Even if that were true — isn’t that still beautiful? To create hope when the world gives you none?”

Host: The clock behind the counter ticked softly. Outside, the mist thickened, blurring the edges of reality. Jack’s reflection in the window looked like another man — tired, skeptical, haunted.

Jack: “You know, I used to pray. Every night, actually. Not because I believed in some higher being — but because I was afraid of the dark. My mother told me, ‘God watches over you.’ So I’d whisper things into the air, hoping someone would answer.”

Jeeny: “And did anyone?”

Jack: “No. Just silence. That’s when I stopped believing.”

Jeeny: “Maybe silence was the answer.”

Jack: “How’s that?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it wasn’t about someone listening, but about you needing to speak. That’s faith, Jack — the act of reaching out, not the guarantee of being heard.”

Host: Jack’s hand tightened around his mug, the steam rising like fragile hope. The rain began again, light and hesitant, pattering against the glass in small, rhythmic whispers.

Jack: “You sound like one of those spiritualists who find meaning in everything. A dead leaf falls and you think it’s the universe sending a message.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Or maybe it’s just a leaf. The beauty is — both can be true.”

Jack: “You really think believing in something unseen makes life easier?”

Jeeny: “Not easier. Just less lonely. When you believe in a higher power, you stop seeing yourself as an accident. You start seeing yourself as part of something living, something loving.”

Jack: “But isn’t that a convenient story? Humans hate chaos, so we invent order. We fear death, so we invent eternity.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe we remember eternity. Maybe belief isn’t invention — maybe it’s recollection. The soul remembering what the mind forgot.”

Host: The lights flickered briefly, a train’s roar vibrating through the floor. Jeeny looked up, her eyes full of quiet certainty. Jack looked down, as if afraid of what he might find if he met that gaze.

Jack: “You really believe there’s someone up there — watching, caring, guiding?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Not as a person in the clouds, but as presence — a higher intelligence woven through everything. Through love. Through kindness. Through the courage to keep going when everything falls apart.”

Jack: “I envy that. I really do. But I can’t force belief. It’s like trying to light a fire with wet matches.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not about forcing. Maybe it’s about allowing. Faith isn’t fire, Jack — it’s warmth. It doesn’t burn; it holds.”

Host: The radio played a slow jazz melody. A man at the counter laughed quietly at something the barista said. The world continued, soft and unbothered, while the conversation deepened like roots into the soil of the night.

Jack: “You talk like someone who’s never been through real loss.”

Jeeny: “I have, Jack. More than you know.”

Jack: “Then how can you still believe in something good out there? When good people die, when prayers go unanswered, when children starve?”

Jeeny: “Because disbelief doesn’t stop any of that either. Suffering exists whether we curse heaven or pray to it. But faith gives it shape — it turns pain into passage.”

Jack: “Passage to what?”

Jeeny: “To meaning. To endurance. To understanding that even agony can be sacred if it opens the heart instead of closing it.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled slightly, but her eyes stayed firm. Jack looked at her long, measuring the sincerity, searching for a crack — but found none. Only quiet strength.

Jack: “You know, my father used to say that faith is for the weak.”

Jeeny: “Then he never realized weakness is the doorway to grace.”

Jack: “You really believe that weakness can be holy?”

Jeeny: “Of course. It’s the moment you stop pretending you’re in control. It’s when you surrender your ego and realize there’s something larger than your small plans.”

Jack: “And if that ‘something larger’ doesn’t exist?”

Jeeny: “Then I’ll still have lived believing in love. What greater faith is there than that?”

Host: The rain eased, leaving a faint glow on the street outside. The lamplight fell through the window, tracing golden lines along Jeeny’s hair. Jack watched, and for the first time, his cynicism softened into wonder.

Jack: “You ever think maybe belief isn’t about God at all? Maybe it’s just about giving shape to hope. Like building a home in the dark.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why belief feels real — because it gives form to what we already sense. It’s not about escaping the dark; it’s about lighting it from within.”

Jack: “So you’re saying even I, a skeptic, already believe in something?”

Jeeny: “You believe in justice, in love, in truth — don’t you?”

Jack: “Yeah.”

Jeeny: “Then you believe in God. You just call Him by different names.”

Host: The train outside screeched to a halt, sending ripples through the air. Inside, the silence between them thickened — not heavy, but full, alive with understanding.

Jack: “You know… when my brother died, I stood at his grave and said out loud, ‘If you’re real, give me a sign.’ Nothing happened. Not then. But a week later, a letter arrived — something he’d written before he passed. It said, ‘Don’t lose yourself when I go. Keep building. Keep believing in something, even if it’s not me.’”

Jeeny: “And you still think that wasn’t your sign?”

Jack: “I don’t know anymore. Maybe it was coincidence.”

Jeeny: “Maybe coincidence is just God choosing to stay anonymous.”

Host: Jack laughed, the first real sound of joy all evening — rough, startled, human. The mist outside began to clear, revealing the blurred outline of dawn’s first light sneaking over the horizon.

Jeeny: “So, do you still think belief is illusion?”

Jack: “No. I think it’s… fuel. For people like you, it burns bright. For people like me, it flickers — but it’s still there.”

Jeeny: “That’s all it needs to do — flicker. A flicker in the dark is still light.”

Jack: “You make faith sound less like doctrine and more like oxygen.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. You don’t have to see it to breathe it.”

Host: The sky lightened slowly, the night dissolving into pale blue. The café door opened and a cold gust entered, carrying the scent of wet earth and renewal.

Jack stared out at the awakening city — street sweepers, delivery trucks, life restarting. Then he smiled, a quiet, weary smile, and set his cigarette aside.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, for the first time in years… I don’t feel completely alone.”

Jeeny: “That’s faith, Jack. It doesn’t erase solitude — it transforms it.”

Jack: “Into what?”

Jeeny: “Into presence. Into strength.”

Host: The first train of the morning rumbled past, a sound like the heart of the world beating again. The light grew stronger, chasing shadows back into their corners.

Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, watching the new day bloom — not perfect, not certain, but possible.

And as the camera of dawn widened, bathing them in quiet gold, the Host’s voice lingered softly over the scene:

“Faith is not the proof of God’s existence — it is the proof of our own. For to believe, even faintly, is to resist despair, to whisper into the vastness, I am not alone.”