I see the world being slowly transformed into a wilderness; I

Host: The evening was thick with smoke and silence. A train station, long abandoned, stood under a dying sun — its glass roof cracked, its pillars painted in rust and memory. The air smelled of iron and dust, and somewhere far away, a clock struck seven — slow, deliberate, almost mournful.

Host: Jack sat on a bench, a newspaper folded in his lap, the headlines screaming of wars, floods, and fires. His eyes, grey and tired, followed the trail of smoke rising from a distant factory, as though it were a prayer gone wrong. Jeeny stood near the window, her hair catching the last light of the day, her hands holding a small notebook, pages worn, edges soft from use.

Host: The wind carried the faint echo of children’s laughter from the streets beyond — brief, fragile, and unbearably human.

Jeeny: (Softly, reading aloud.) “I see the world being slowly transformed into a wilderness; I hear the approaching thunder that, one day, will destroy us too...” (She pauses, her voice trembling.) “And yet, when I look up at the sky, I somehow feel that everything will change for the better.”

Jack: (Looking up.) “Anne Frank.”

Jeeny: (Nods.) “Yes.”

Jack: (He leans back, sighs.) “A child, hiding in a world that had already lost its soul, still believing in hope. I’ll never understand that kind of faith.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why it matters. Because she believed when everything told her not to.”

Host: The light from the broken glass above spilled across the floor in long, gold ribbons. It fell on Jeeny’s face, softening her features, turning her into something almost ethereal — a contrast to Jack’s sharp, shadowed outline.

Jack: “Hope is for people who can afford to wait. The world she saw — that wilderness — it never left. It just learned to wear better clothes. Different flags, same cruelty. We’ve got children in cages, bombs in hospitals, lies on every screen. Tell me, Jeeny — what sky could make that feel better?”

Jeeny: (Her eyes narrow slightly, but her tone stays calm.) “The same sky she saw — indifferent, eternal, untouched by our sins. She didn’t look up because the world was kind. She looked up because she refused to let the world define her heart.”

Jack: “That sounds poetic. But the world doesn’t care about hearts. It devours them.”

Jeeny: “Then why are you still reading the news, Jack? If you really believed that, you’d stop looking. You’d stop caring. But you haven’t. Something in you still wants to believe there’s a chance — even if it’s small.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling slightly against the bench. A gust of wind swept through, scattering dust and old leaves.

Jack: “Belief doesn’t rebuild cities or feed people. It’s a story we tell ourselves to stay sane while the world burns.”

Jeeny: “And yet, stories are the only reason we’ve survived this long. They remind us that beyond every ruin, someone once loved, someone once dreamed. Anne Frank’s words outlived every wall that tried to silence her. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Host: The sun dipped lower, turning the station into a cathedral of shadows. The air grew cooler, filled with the scent of rain waiting to fall.

Jack: “You talk like hope is armor. It isn’t. It’s a wound — wide open, waiting to be hurt again.”

Jeeny: (Quietly.) “Then let it be. Because a wound still feels. And as long as we feel, we can heal. That’s what she believed — even as she felt the thunder coming.”

Host: The silence that followed was almost sacred. The world outside was beginning to darken; the lights of the city flickered in the distance like tiny stars, manmade constellations trying to compete with the real ones.

Jack: “You know what I think, Jeeny? I think Anne Frank saw the future — our future — and she was wrong. The wilderness didn’t end. It grew. It’s everywhere now. In our politics, our greed, our apathy. Humanity’s not at risk of destruction; it’s addicted to it.”

Jeeny: “Then how do you explain kindness, Jack? Every act of mercy, every stranger who helps without asking? You can’t erase that. The wilderness doesn’t win — it only hides the light for a while.”

Jack: (A bitter smile.) “Light’s no use if no one can reach it.”

Jeeny: “That’s where faith comes in. Not religion, not fantasy — just the stubborn belief that something good can still happen. Anne’s faith wasn’t blind. It was defiant.”

Host: The rain began — slow, rhythmic, echoing across the metal roof. Each drop a small heartbeat against the vast emptiness.

Jack: “Defiance doesn’t save you from death.”

Jeeny: “No. But it saves you from dying inside while you’re still alive.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated them — Jack, rigid and skeptical, Jeeny, still and luminous, her notebook clutched like a relic.

Jack: “You think I’m heartless. But I’ve seen what faith does when it breaks. I’ve watched people pray while bombs fell. I’ve seen good men lose everything because they waited for the world to get better.”

Jeeny: “And yet here you are — waiting for me to convince you it still can.”

Host: That hit him — not like a slap, but like a truth he’d been dodging. He looked away, out toward the rain-soaked horizon, where the clouds gathered like bruises.

Jack: “You always turn it back on me.”

Jeeny: “Because you already know the answer. You just don’t want to admit it. Hope scares you more than despair ever did.”

Jack: (Softly.) “Maybe. Because despair is predictable. Hope asks for trust — and trust always hurts.”

Host: The station lights flickered once, then steadied. The rain softened, and a faint glow broke through the clouds, pale but pure.

Jeeny: “Do you hear that?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “The thunder. It’s fading.”

Host: He listened. She was right. The storm was moving east, leaving behind a wet calm. The air felt new, washed, almost tender.

Jeeny: “That’s what Anne meant. That one day the cruelty will end. Not because it’s defeated, but because it exhausts itself. The world can’t sustain endless hate — it burns itself out.”

Jack: “And then?”

Jeeny: “Then peace returns. Slowly. Like morning after the longest night.”

Host: Jack nodded, his eyes softer now, the tension in his shoulders easing. He looked up — really looked — at the sky through the broken glass roof. The clouds were parting, revealing a faint patch of blue — fragile, uncertain, but real.

Jack: “You think Anne would still say that — if she saw us now?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because she saw worse and still believed. That’s the miracle, Jack. Hope isn’t born from peace. It’s born from pain.”

Host: The rain stopped entirely. A single beam of sunlight broke through, slicing across the station, touching the notebook in Jeeny’s hands. She opened it once more, her fingers trembling slightly.

Jeeny: (Reading softly.) “And yet, when I look up at the sky, I somehow feel that everything will change for the better…”

Host: Jack’s lips parted, but he said nothing. He simply watched as Jeeny’s voice filled the empty hall, her words mingling with the soft drip of water, the distant hum of the city returning to life.

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — the two figures framed beneath a sky just beginning to clear. The world, battered and bleeding, but not yet broken. The storm had passed, for now.

Host: And as the light touched their faces — Jack’s lined with doubt, Jeeny’s with quiet belief — the scene would close on that shared silence, where despair and hope no longer fought, but simply existed together.

Host: Above them, the sky stretched wide — the same one Anne Frank once looked at, still beautiful, still waiting, still believed in.