I was born in the kingdom of Denmark, the birthplace of famous

Host: The harbor was silent, wrapped in the blue hush of an early Nordic evening. The sea shimmered under a sheet of pale moonlight, rippling like glass touched by memory. The wind carried the faint echo of gulls and the distant clink of ship masts — a lullaby of the north.

Inside a small café near Nyhavn, the windows fogged softly against the cold. The walls were lined with paintings of old ships and portraits of sailors — men who’d once chased horizons and never returned.

At a corner table, Jack sat, his hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee, staring out at the water as if trying to remember something he’d never seen. Across from him, Jeeny tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear, her eyes reflecting the candle’s small flame.

The Host speaks slowly — the tone of a memory being awakened rather than told.

Jeeny: “Morten Andersen once said, ‘I was born in the kingdom of Denmark, the birthplace of famous Danish fairytale writer, Hans Christian Andersen. His magical stories have traveled the world, and just like he did, inspired young and old alike. When I was young, I often imagined the faraway places he described.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “A football player quoting a storyteller. That’s new.”

Jeeny: “Not so strange, is it? Both dreamers in their own way. One chased the ball, the other chased imagination. Maybe the same kind of courage drives both.”

Jack: “Courage, or delusion. Hans Christian Andersen imagined palaces and mermaids. Morten Andersen kicked a ball across oceans. Different tools, same escape.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not escape — expansion. They both reached beyond their birthplace. That’s what stories — and dreams — are for.”

Host: The candlelight flickered between them, its flame caught in the draft from the open door. The faint sound of a violin drifted from outside, where a street performer played “The Swan.”

Jack: “When I was a kid, I used to think fairytales were lies. Pretty distractions. People like Andersen made poverty sound poetic, made sadness beautiful. But when you live it, there’s nothing beautiful about hunger.”

Jeeny: “He wasn’t trying to romanticize it, Jack. He was giving it meaning. Turning pain into story is how you survive it.”

Jack: “Or how you hide from it.”

Jeeny: “No — how you transform it. There’s a difference.”

Host: Jeeny leaned forward, her voice low but alive, like the flicker of the flame beside her.

Jeeny: “Think about it. Andersen was born poor, mocked for his voice, rejected by almost everyone — but he kept writing. Because he believed that even broken hearts deserved to become legends.”

Jack: “And Morten Andersen? He wasn’t writing stories. He was kicking footballs in the snow until his feet bled.”

Jeeny: “But that’s his fairytale, isn’t it? Different medium, same longing — to turn the ordinary into the extraordinary.”

Jack: “You’re comparing art to sport.”

Jeeny: “I’m comparing human hunger — for more, for elsewhere. For the faraway places we imagine when the world feels too small.”

Host: The wind outside pressed against the windows, a soft moan like the sea remembering its own stories. The café lights dimmed a little, their glow becoming gentler, dreamlike.

Jack: “You ever notice how every great dream starts with a kind of dissatisfaction? Andersen wanted to escape poverty. Morten wanted to escape limits. You, probably the same. Maybe we all just want to run from something.”

Jeeny: “Or toward something.”

Jack: “That’s optimistic.”

Jeeny: “That’s faith.”

Host: Her eyes glimmered — not from light, but from conviction.

Jeeny: “When I read Andersen as a child, I didn’t just see magic. I saw hope — that no matter how small or fragile you are, you can become more. The Little Mermaid didn’t just dream of the land; she sacrificed everything to reach it. That’s not naivety. That’s bravery.”

Jack: “And she died for it.”

Jeeny: “So did every hero worth remembering.”

Host: The rain began to fall outside, faint and rhythmic, like the soft tapping of fingers on glass.

Jack: “You think that’s what Andersen wanted? To teach children that suffering is noble?”

Jeeny: “No. To teach them that meaning often hides inside suffering. That even pain can be a kind of magic — if you learn to shape it.”

Jack: “You talk about it like it’s alchemy.”

Jeeny: “It is. Storytelling is emotional alchemy. Turning lead into light.”

Host: Jack looked down at his coffee, swirling it absently. He seemed to be listening to something inside himself, a sound just beyond hearing.

Jack: “You know, I left my hometown because I thought life would finally start somewhere else. But the farther I went, the more I realized I was just dragging my old ghosts along.”

Jeeny: “That’s because the journey isn’t out there. It’s in here.” (she taps her chest lightly) “The ‘faraway places’ Andersen described — they weren’t just continents. They were states of soul.”

Jack: (quietly) “And if your soul feels small?”

Jeeny: “Then that’s where the story begins.”

Host: The light outside turned softer — the kind of blue that only comes when rain meets moonlight. The violin had stopped, leaving behind a hush so complete it felt holy.

Jeeny: “When Morten Andersen talks about imagining faraway places as a boy, I think he’s talking about the same thing every artist, every dreamer feels — that strange ache to see the unseen. To live what only imagination dares to promise.”

Jack: “But imagination’s cruel. It shows you what could be, and then leaves you to live with what is.”

Jeeny: “Unless you decide to build what could be.”

Jack: “And if it breaks you in the process?”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve lived something worth breaking for.”

Host: A pause — the kind that feels heavier than silence. Jack’s face softened, his eyes drifting to the window, to the blurred shapes of ships swaying gently in the harbor.

Jack: “You ever wonder if Andersen knew his stories would outlive him?”

Jeeny: “I think he hoped they would — but I think he wrote them because he had to. Just like Morten kicked that ball. Just like you design. It’s not about legacy. It’s about release.”

Jack: “Release from what?”

Jeeny: “From the cage of the ordinary.”

Host: The candle flickered again — a small dance between endurance and surrender.

Jeeny: “Andersen’s Denmark wasn’t a kingdom of riches. It was a kingdom of dreams. Morten Andersen took that same spirit and carried it to America — another land of imagination. Both were travelers of wonder, Jack. One by pen, one by foot. Both chasing the impossible — and somehow catching it.”

Jack: “So you think that’s the point of life? To chase the impossible?”

Jeeny: “To make it possible, even for a heartbeat.”

Host: The rain began to slow, the droplets melting into quietness. The harbor lights shimmered like scattered stars across the black water.

Jack’s voice lowered, almost tender.

Jack: “When I was young, I used to stand at the edge of the pier and stare at the horizon. I thought if I just walked long enough, I’d find the place where the sky touched the sea. I didn’t know it was just an illusion.”

Jeeny: “It’s not an illusion. It’s a metaphor. The sky and sea don’t meet because they already belong to each other. Maybe that’s what Andersen was trying to tell us — that the real magic isn’t in reaching new worlds, but realizing we’re already part of one.”

Jack: (after a long silence) “You always make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “Only because I still believe in fairytales.”

Host: Jack smiled — not mockingly this time, but softly, almost like a confession.

Jack: “Then maybe I do too. Just… grown-up versions. Stories where the mermaid learns to swim again.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The modern fairytale — same heart, different language.”

Host: Outside, the clouds parted. A thin moonbeam slipped through the window and fell across the table, bathing them both in pale silver light.

Jeeny reached out, closing her notebook.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why people like Andersen and Morten Andersen matter. They remind us that imagination isn’t childish — it’s heritage. The kind that outlasts us.”

Jack: “And maybe dreaming is Denmark’s greatest export.”

Jeeny: “And humanity’s.”

Host: They both laughed quietly — not because it was funny, but because it felt right.

The camera pulls back: the café glows softly against the night; the harbor breathes beneath a moon stitched by light and memory.

The candle burns low, trembling but unextinguished.

And in that quiet, the world seems to whisper through the windows — a story that began in Denmark, but belongs everywhere.

Because the truest fairytales aren’t about magic at all — they’re about the courage to imagine something more.