I was in my mid-teens when someone gave me a copy of 'Pears

Host: The library was nearly empty, a cathedral of dust, silence, and light that filtered in through the old windows. Outside, autumn leaves drifted past the glass — slow, golden confessions of time.

At a corner table, between stacks of forgotten books, Jack sat with a cup of black coffee, its steam curling into the air like an unfinished thought. Across from him, Jeeny’s eyes followed the lines of a book in her hands — the cover faded, the spine cracked, the title just barely legible: “Pears Encyclopaedia of Myth and Legends.”

The clock ticked faintly above them, marking the slow breathing of the place.

Jeeny: “Tariq Ali once said, ‘I was in my mid-teens when someone gave me a copy of “Pears Encyclopaedia of Myth and Legends” as a birthday present. It sat on my shelves for many months before I looked at it. When I did, I couldn’t stop reading it.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “So, another case of accidental enlightenment, huh?”

Jeeny: (smiling back) “Maybe not accidental. Maybe it just waited until he was ready to see it.”

Host: The sunlight fell across her face, softening her features — the small, contemplative curve of her lips, the quiet conviction in her eyes. Jack leaned back, his grey eyes narrowing as he stared at the book, as if it carried some old secret he didn’t quite trust.

Jack: “Myths. Legends. All that symbolic nonsense. People read them to escape life, not to understand it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because they don’t realize myths are life — just wearing older clothes.”

Host: Her voice was gentle but edged with something luminous, like the faint shimmer of a sword in the dark. Jack ran a hand through his hair, his tone dry.

Jack: “You think stories about gods and monsters explain us? We’ve got science now, Jeeny. We’ve got data, evolution, psychology — we don’t need Zeus throwing lightning bolts to make sense of a thunderstorm.”

Jeeny: “But we still need stories to make sense of ourselves. Data doesn’t tell you what to believe in when everything breaks. It doesn’t teach you why love hurts, or why power corrupts, or why people destroy what they fear. Myths do.”

Host: Her words landed softly, like falling leaves, but each one carried a quiet weight. Jack took a slow sip of his coffee — bitter, grounding.

Jack: “So, what, you think the old gods are metaphors now? That every legend’s just a psychology textbook in disguise?”

Jeeny: “Not metaphors. Mirrors. The myths we tell reveal who we are — what we want, what we’re afraid of. When Ali found that book, he didn’t find stories about Olympus. He found himself.”

Host: Jack glanced at the shelves — rows upon rows of spines, each a silent heartbeat of some long-gone author. He looked back at her.

Jack: “You ever think maybe we cling to myths because we can’t stand how ordinary we really are?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I think we create myths because we know we aren’t ordinary.”

Host: The light shifted. A single beam landed on the table between them, illuminating the open book like a relic. Dust motes danced through it — tiny, glowing ghosts of knowledge.

Jack: “You sound like a believer.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I am. Belief isn’t blindness — it’s curiosity with a heartbeat.”

Jack: “Curiosity’s dangerous. People start believing their own stories, and next thing you know, history repeats itself. Crusades, dictatorships, cults — all fueled by myth.”

Jeeny: “And revolutions, Jack. And art. And love. Every great act starts as a story someone dared to believe. Even science begins with myth — a hypothesis is just a modern oracle.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t angry, just cornered by the elegance of her reasoning.

Jack: “You’re romanticizing it. Myths were tools of control — kings and priests spinning tales to keep people obedient.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But those same stories gave people meaning when nothing else did. Even now, we chase myths — just dressed up as careers, brands, and algorithms.”

Host: A soft silence fell. Jeeny turned a page. The sound was delicate, reverent — like a priest turning scripture.

Jeeny: “Do you know the myth of Prometheus?”

Jack: “The guy who stole fire and got punished for it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But think about it — that story isn’t about punishment. It’s about courage. About the cost of giving knowledge to humanity. Every scientist, every artist, every truth-teller carries a bit of Prometheus in them. Tariq Ali, too — he lit fires with words.”

Jack: “And look what happened to Prometheus. Chained. Tormented. Maybe the gods were right — maybe humans can’t handle fire.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the pain is the point. Maybe wisdom’s supposed to burn.”

Host: Her eyes met his — unwavering, alive. For a long moment, neither spoke. The library seemed to breathe around them, ancient and eternal.

Jack: “You talk like every story’s sacred.”

Jeeny: “Not sacred — alive. Every myth is just a heartbeat that’s lasted longer than the body it came from.”

Jack: “And what about when the myths lie?”

Jeeny: “Then they become warnings. That’s the beauty of them — truth hides in the mistake.”

Host: A gust of wind slipped through an open window, fluttering loose papers across the floor. Jeeny bent to pick one up — a torn page from some forgotten book. She read it aloud:

Jeeny: “We tell stories not to escape death, but to teach it how to wait.”

Jack: (softly) “That’s… something.”

Jeeny: “It’s everything.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his eyes drifting toward the ceiling. The light dimmed; the afternoon had begun to fade. For the first time in a long while, he looked less like a skeptic and more like a man remembering what it meant to wonder.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why he couldn’t stop reading. Tariq Ali, I mean. Maybe the myths weren’t about gods at all. Maybe they were about him — about everyone who’s ever wanted more than one lifetime could hold.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Myths don’t die, Jack. They just change names.”

Host: The library lights flickered on, soft and golden. Outside, the leaves kept falling, each one a small echo of something once alive.

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You think we’ll ever write new ones?”

Jeeny: “We already are. Every time someone dares to tell the truth in a world that forgets how to listen — that’s a new myth being born.”

Host: The silence returned, full but tender. The book lay open between them — a relic and a prophecy, ink and eternity sharing the same breath.

Jack reached out, tracing a line on the yellowed page with one finger.

Jack: “Funny. I used to think stories were escape routes.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they are. But sometimes, they’re also maps.”

Host: Outside, the last light of day spilled through the windows, turning the dust into gold. Somewhere between the turning pages and the fading sun, something timeless stirred — the quiet pulse of curiosity that refuses to die.

And as they sat there, surrounded by myths and legends, neither realized they’d become part of one themselves — two souls in a quiet library, rediscovering the ancient fire hidden inside every story that refuses to be forgotten.