I mean, every child at one stage dreams of being a prince or a

Host:
The morning light poured through the arched windows of a small art gallery, quiet and white as an empty page. The walls were lined with portraits — faces frozen in oil and time — kings and queens, nobles and poets, their eyes fixed somewhere beyond the frame, gazing at the invisible futures of their painters.

A faint piano melody drifted from a hidden speaker, each note like a drop of memory falling into the present. The air smelled of linen, paint, and coffee, and dust floated like tiny ghosts in the sunbeams.

Jack stood before one of the portraits — a young monarch, face serene, eyes bright with youthful arrogance. His hands were tucked into his coat pockets, and his expression was unreadable — somewhere between nostalgia and contempt.

Across the room, Jeeny was sketching in a small notebook, her hair catching the light like black silk, her eyes soft but intent. When she spoke, her voice carried gently, as though she feared to disturb the ghosts hanging on the walls.

“I mean, every child at one stage dreams of being a prince or a princess.” — Mary, Crown Princess of Denmark

The words lingered, delicate and wistful, like perfume in sunlight.

Jeeny: looking up from her notebook “Isn’t it strange? We all dream of being royal once — of being chosen, seen, special. And then we grow up and dream of being ordinary again.”

Jack: smirking “Speak for yourself. I never wanted to be a prince. I wanted to be a pirate. At least they didn’t have to smile for portraits.”

Host:
His laugh was short, rough, like a stone skipping only once before sinking. Jeeny smiled, but there was sadness in her eyes, the kind that comes from knowing a truth she couldn’t unlearn.

Jeeny: “You think it’s all just childish fantasy, don’t you?”

Jack: “Of course it is. Fairy tales are just training wheels for disappointment. The world spends your childhood telling you you’re special, then spends the rest of your life reminding you you’re not.”

Jeeny: closing her notebook “Or maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe childhood is the only time we remember the truth — that everyone is royal, in their own way. We just forget how to wear the crown.”

Host:
A faint breeze drifted through the open window, lifting the edge of a curtain. Outside, the city buzzed softly — buses, bicycles, the quiet pulse of ordinary lives. Inside, the silence grew thicker, as if the very air had begun to listen.

Jack: snorting “A crown? Don’t make it poetic, Jeeny. A kid wants to be a prince because a prince never has to worry about rent. It’s not about nobility, it’s about ease. You can call it imagination, but it’s just wishful thinking in fancy clothes.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s about dignity. Even a child knows that to be a prince isn’t just to be rich — it’s to be seen. To be acknowledged as something worthy of care. Every child wants that — to feel important in the eyes of the world.”

Jack: quietly “And then we grow up and realize the world doesn’t have eyes.”

Host:
Her breathing paused, the moment tightening between them like a drawn bowstring. Outside, a church bell began to toll — deep, slow, reverent, counting the hours they’d already lost.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why we need the dream. Because even if the world is blind, hope still looks at us. That’s what the fairy tale is for — not to escape the world, but to endure it.”

Jack: turning toward her, voice low “Hope doesn’t pay rent either.”

Jeeny: “No. But it pays attention.”

Host:
The sunlight shifted, falling on the portrait between them — the young prince, forever frozen in his painted serenity. The light caught his eyes, making them shine with the illusion of life, as though the boy behind the paint still had something to say.

Jack: after a pause “You know what’s ironic? Even the ones born into it — the real princes, the real princesses — they grow up wanting to be free of it. The crown turns into a chain.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “That’s because fairy tales aren’t about power. They’re about innocence. The moment you believe you’ve earned the crown, you’ve already lost it.”

Host:
The music from the piano deepened — a melancholy refrain, soft and looping. Jeeny stood, walking toward the window, her reflection merging with the city outside — ordinary faces, ordinary lives, the kind of beauty that goes unnoticed.

Jeeny: “You know, I think the Princess meant more than she said. It’s not just that children dream of crowns. It’s that they believe they can deserve them. Before life teaches them to lower their eyes.”

Jack: quietly, almost to himself “Maybe that’s why adults drink. To forget what they were supposed to become.”

Host:
He said it half in jest, half in confession, and for a moment, the smell of coffee seemed heavier — bittersweet, like time itself. Jeeny turned from the window, her eyes softened by pity and affection, the kind that sees pain without trying to fix it.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? We don’t stop being princes and princesses. We just stop acting like it. We trade imagination for self-doubt, wonder for logic. And we call it growing up.”

Jack: tilting his head, a smile tugging at his mouth “You make it sound like cynicism is a disease.”

Jeeny: gently “It is. It’s what happens when the child inside us stops believing he’s royal.”

Host:
The light outside softened, the day shifting toward golden hour. The portraits glowed as if backlit by memory. One by one, their painted faces seemed to come alive — emperors, queens, dreamers — all of them once children who had believed they were special.

Jack: “So what are we supposed to do? Put the crown back on and play pretend again?”

Jeeny: smiling sadly “Not pretend — remember. There’s a difference.”

Jack: after a pause “And what if we don’t remember how?”

Jeeny: closing her eyes “Then find a child who still does. They’ll teach you.”

Host:
For a moment, the world held still. The music faded, the air thickened with a kind of holy silence — the silence of realization, of longing, of the gentle ache that comes when one glimpses their lost self.

Then Jack smiled, not his usual sardonic curve, but a real one — soft, unarmored, human.

Jack: “Maybe we’re all still trying on crowns. They just look different now — headphones, titles, bank accounts, ambitions.”

Jeeny: grinning “And maybe the real royalty isn’t about owning kingdoms, but ruling moments — knowing how to find grace, even in an ordinary day.”

Host:
Outside, a child’s laughter echoed from the street, bright and clear, cutting through the adult stillness like a bell through fog. Jeeny turned toward the sound, smiling faintly, and Jack followed her gaze — the kind of look that said, for once, they were thinking the same thing.

The camera of memory slowly pulled back, leaving the two of them standing before the portrait, the sunlight sliding over their faces, gilding them for a brief, impossible moment — like a blessing.

Host:
And perhaps that was the secret the Princess had whispered to time itself —
That every child wears a crown not made of gold,
but of belief.

And though the years may strip away the glitter,
the royalty remains — quiet, unthroned,
in the heart’s small kingdom,
where to dream, still, is to reign.