I started in theatre. I was at Cleveland and I went to London for

Host: The theatre was old — the kind of old that carries ghosts. Dust motes swam in the dim light from the chandeliers, and the faint smell of velvet, wood polish, and history hung thick in the air. On the stage, rows of empty red seats stared back like patient witnesses, waiting for a story to begin again.

Jack stood near the center, his hands tucked into the pockets of his worn coat, looking up at the rafters where ropes and rigging hung like the veins of memory. Jeeny sat on the edge of the stage, her legs swinging slightly, a paper program in her lap, her eyes roaming the hall with quiet wonder.

Jeeny: “James Cromwell once said, ‘I started in theatre. I was at Cleveland and I went to London for the 400th anniversary of Shakespeare's birth.’”

Host: Her voice carried softly through the cavernous room, bouncing off the walls like a whisper from the past. Jack turned, his expression thoughtful, his gaze fixed on her as though she’d just invoked something sacred.

Jack: “Cromwell. Yeah, I remember that quote. It’s funny — everyone starts somewhere humble, but they only remember the spotlight.”

Jeeny: “That’s because the stage keeps its secrets better than people do.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s because the audience forgets that the beginning matters.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “You mean the rehearsal?”

Jack: “Exactly. Nobody claps for the rehearsal.”

Host: The floorboards creaked beneath him as he walked closer, his footsteps echoing. He stopped beside her, looking out into the empty seats — the ghosts of applause hovering just beyond reach.

Jack: “You ever think about what it must’ve been like? London. Shakespeare’s 400th. A world still trying to honor words four centuries old.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why theatre endures. It’s not about the past — it’s about remembering that we still feel the same things.”

Jack: “Love, envy, ambition, madness.”

Jeeny: “The usual human software.”

Host: A faint draft swept through the open wings, carrying with it the rustle of curtains and something else — the faint sound of a violin warming up in another world. Jeeny tilted her head, her eyes closing as if she could hear it too.

Jeeny: “You know, what I love about that quote isn’t the travel or the Shakespeare part. It’s the simplicity. ‘I started in theatre.’ Like saying, ‘I started in truth.’”

Jack: “You think theatre’s truth?”

Jeeny: “It’s the truest lie we’ve ever built. You walk onto a stage, speak someone else’s words, feel someone else’s pain, and somehow — it becomes yours. That’s not pretense, Jack. That’s empathy with lighting.”

Jack: (laughs softly) “Empathy with lighting. That’s poetic, even for you.”

Jeeny: “It’s survival, not poetry. Theatre taught people how to feel before therapy existed.”

Host: The spotlight hanging from the rafters flickered to life for a brief moment, bathing the stage in a single cone of gold. Dust spiraled through it like stars.

Jack: “I remember my first performance. College production. Macbeth. I played Banquo — didn’t even make it past Act Three. But standing under that light... it felt like time stopped. Like I was seen — not as who I was, but as who I could’ve been.”

Jeeny: “That’s what art does. It lets you try on other lives until you find your own.”

Jack: “And then you lose it again.”

Jeeny: “Only if you stop listening.”

Host: The silence between them thickened — not heavy, but reverent. The air itself seemed to hum with memory.

Jack: “You know, Cromwell started there — in Cleveland, in small rooms, bad lighting, probably freezing winters. But he kept going. All the way to London. You can’t fake that kind of devotion. That’s someone who believed in the long arc of craft.”

Jeeny: “Because craft isn’t about fame. It’s about belonging to the work. Theatre’s like a covenant: give it your honesty, and it gives you meaning.”

Jack: “And if you lie to it?”

Jeeny: “It lies back — loudly.”

Host: A faint laugh echoed from the upper balconies — not real, but remembered. Somewhere, centuries of actors had left behind the echoes of their hearts.

Jack: “You think we’ve lost that kind of devotion? That purity?”

Jeeny: “No. I think we traded it for exposure.”

Jack: “You mean followers, views, numbers?”

Jeeny: “Yes. We’ve mistaken visibility for value. But theatre — it reminds us that truth isn’t scalable. It’s intimate. It happens between two people breathing the same air.”

Host: The light above them dimmed again, leaving the stage wrapped in soft shadow. The velvet curtains swayed gently, brushing against the floor like the slow breath of an old god.

Jack: “You ever wish you’d been there? London. 1964. The 400th anniversary?”

Jeeny: “I think about it sometimes. Not because of Shakespeare, but because of the energy. The idea that the human voice — just words — could still fill a theatre four hundred years later.”

Jack: “That’s the miracle, isn’t it? Everything else fades — cities, empires, names — but the words survive.”

Jeeny: “Because they remind us who we are. Because every time someone speaks them again, the dead wake up a little.”

Host: The room felt smaller now, alive with their breath, the invisible presence of all the stories that had lived here before.

Jack: “You think that’s what Cromwell meant? That the start — the humble beginning — isn’t just nostalgia, it’s foundation?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can’t reach the truth without the stumble. You can’t stand in light without remembering the dark you rehearsed in.”

Jack: “So the dream doesn’t start with fame. It starts with faith.”

Jeeny: “Faith in what?”

Jack: “That your voice matters.”

Host: Jeeny smiled — slow, knowing — and stood. She walked to center stage, where the spotlight had briefly burned, and looked out into the sea of empty seats.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how empty theatres feel full?”

Jack: “Full of ghosts?”

Jeeny: “Full of gratitude.”

Host: She turned back to him, her eyes shining faintly in the low light.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack, Cromwell wasn’t just remembering Shakespeare. He was remembering where belief begins — in small rooms, cold nights, uncertain hearts. That’s the stage every creator starts from. And when you stand there long enough, you realize the spotlight was never about being seen — it was about finally seeing yourself.”

Host: The lights flickered again, then went dark. Outside, the rain began — soft, rhythmic, like applause fading into the night.

Jack stood, looking at the empty stage, and smiled.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why we keep coming back — to rehearse being human.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The theatre held them in its silence, two souls suspended between memory and meaning, surrounded by centuries of voices that refused to vanish.

And in that stillness, Shakespeare’s words — though unspoken — seemed to hover in the air: All the world’s a stage.

And for a fleeting moment, it was true again —
not as a metaphor, but as a heartbeat.