I have for some time urged that a nuclear abolition summit to

Host: The evening air hung still over Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park, the kind of stillness that hums with history — not silence, but reverence. The river moved softly, its dark surface catching the faint reflection of paper lanterns floating downstream — thousands of them, glowing softly in colors of remembrance: white for peace, yellow for hope, red for forgiveness.

The ruins of the A-Bomb Dome stood nearby, skeletal but defiant, framed by the last gold light of sunset. It was neither monument nor ruin anymore — it was memory made of stone.

On a nearby bench, Jack sat in quiet contemplation, his coat draped beside him, a small notebook resting on his knee. His pen had stopped moving long ago.

From the path behind him came the soft sound of footsteps — measured, careful. Jeeny approached, carrying two folded candles and a lighter. She sat beside him without a word. For a long time, they just watched the river.

Jeeny: softly, after a long pause “Daisaku Ikeda once said — ‘I have for some time urged that a nuclear abolition summit to mark the effective end of the nuclear era be convened in Hiroshima and Nagasaki on the 70th anniversary of the bombings of those cities, with the participation of national leaders and representatives of global civil society.’”

Jack: quietly, his voice low as if afraid to disturb the air “A summit for the end of the nuclear era — in the very cities where it began. That’s poetry, isn’t it?”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “Yes. And prophecy. A hope that those who made fire from heaven might one day learn to light only candles.”

Host: The sky deepened, shading from violet to indigo. The lanterns continued their slow procession down the river — drifting like souls on pilgrimage, each one carrying a name, a prayer, a promise.

Jack: softly “Every time I come here, it feels impossible to speak. Words seem… small.”

Jeeny: gently “Maybe that’s what this place teaches — that silence, too, is a kind of speech.”

Jack: looking toward the Dome “It’s strange, isn’t it? How something so horrific could become a symbol for peace. As if the world can only learn compassion through catastrophe.”

Jeeny: nodding “That’s human nature — we only truly see the value of life when it trembles.”

Host: The wind brushed past them, stirring the paper lanterns on the bench. Jeeny lit her lighter, cupping the flame against the wind. The small fire flickered — fragile, defiant.

Jeeny: softly “Ikeda’s vision wasn’t just political. It was moral. To gather the leaders of nations here — not in palaces or conference halls, but in the shadow of what humanity once did to itself.”

Jack: quietly “To remind them that power isn’t measured by destruction, but by restraint.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Exactly. The summit would have been more than a meeting — it would have been a confession.”

Host: Jack reached over, taking one of the candles from her. Together, they leaned toward the river. He lit his from hers, the two flames merging briefly before separating again — twin lights against the coming night.

Jack: watching the flame “You think humanity’s capable of ending the nuclear age? Of actually letting go of the fear it built its whole identity on?”

Jeeny: after a pause “I think humanity’s tired, Jack. Tired of pretending that annihilation is safety. Maybe that’s the beginning of wisdom.”

Jack: softly “You’re more optimistic than I am.”

Jeeny: smiling gently “No. Just more stubborn.”

Host: The first stars began to appear above the Dome — faint but insistent. The sound of distant chanting drifted through the park, voices singing softly for peace, for forgiveness, for renewal.

Jack: after a long silence “You know what always gets me about Hiroshima? It’s not the tragedy — it’s the forgiveness. The way people here chose to rebuild, not as victims, but as teachers.”

Jeeny: quietly “Ikeda understood that. That the only true monument to peace isn’t a stone or a speech — it’s empathy that refuses extinction.”

Jack: nodding slowly “A global summit for abolition, here, would have meant something profound. To sit the most powerful nations in the world beneath the echo of their own history — to make them listen not to their generals, but to the ghosts.”

Jeeny: softly “And to the survivors — the hibakusha. They are the world’s living conscience.”

Jack: gazing at the lanterns “You think their stories can still change hearts?”

Jeeny: firmly “If they can’t, nothing can.”

Host: The camera would linger here — two figures illuminated by candlelight, the river of light moving slowly behind them. The air itself felt sacred, charged with quiet remembrance and reluctant hope.

Jack: after a long moment “You know what I think, Jeeny? The nuclear age didn’t end with treaties or disarmament. It’ll end the day we stop believing fear is the only way to keep peace.”

Jeeny: nodding softly “And start believing compassion can be a defense.”

Jack: looking at her, a faint smile “That sounds like Ikeda.”

Jeeny: smiling back “It sounds like what we still need to learn.”

Host: The bells from the Memorial Museum began to toll — one, then another, each note rolling gently across the park. Around them, the last few visitors stood in silence, their candles reflected in the river like stars come home to earth.

Jeeny: whispering “Imagine — leaders from every nation standing here, holding a single flame. No speeches, no weapons. Just silence. Just humanity remembering itself.”

Jack: softly “That would be the real summit.”

Jeeny: nodding “And the first one that mattered.”

Host: The camera would rise slowly, the park below glowing with hundreds of lanterns, their reflections shimmering in the water like constellations of peace. The ruined Dome stood tall, unbroken, its shadow reaching toward the stars.

And as the music of bells and water intertwined, Daisaku Ikeda’s words would echo through the night — not as politics, but as prayer:

“I have for some time urged that a nuclear abolition summit to mark the effective end of the nuclear era be convened in Hiroshima and Nagasaki on the 70th anniversary of the bombings of those cities, with the participation of national leaders and representatives of global civil society.”

Because true peace
is not the absence of weapons,
but the presence of conscience.

And the end of the nuclear era
will not come through power,
but through remembrance —
through the courage to feel
what fear has taught us to forget.

For every flame that floats upon that river
is a vow:

That the fire humanity once unleashed
will never again rise to consume the sky,
but instead,
will live only here —
in the gentle, enduring light
of compassion reborn.