I would love to create a piece of theater that is devised by a

Host: The stage was empty — a hollow cathedral of wood and velvet, where silence itself seemed to breathe. Dust floated lazily in the beams of light that fell through the rafters, slicing through the darkness like memory through time.

Rows of empty seats stared forward — red velvet fading at the edges, each one holding echoes of laughter, tears, and applause long since gone. On the floor near center stage, a single spotlight burned — not bright, but steady, the only voice left in the room.

Jack stood in the circle of its light, his hands tucked in his pockets, his eyes lifted toward the rigging above — where ropes, curtains, and dreams hung in patient silence. His shadow, tall and still, stretched across the stage floor like a second self — one that had seen too many rehearsals, too many endings.

Jeeny entered quietly from the wings, carrying a small notebook. Her steps were soft, deliberate, respectful — as though she were walking through a sacred place.

She stopped at the edge of the light, watching him.

Jeeny: softly “Michael Arden once said, ‘I would love to create a piece of theater that is devised by a company of actors and creators that I’d put together, and I’d love for it to be nonverbal so it’s something that someone with any communication ability can enjoy.’”

Jack: half-smiling, eyes still upward “Nonverbal theater. A performance that doesn’t need words. Imagine that — silence as a universal language.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not silence. Expression. The kind of truth that lives between sound.”

Jack: turns toward her, thoughtful “You think that’s possible? To move people without saying anything?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Babies do it. Lovers do it. The dying do it. The body speaks in ways words can’t — sometimes in ways words ruin.”

Host: Her voice echoed softly in the room, carried by the hush that theaters seem to protect even when they’re empty. Jack took a few slow steps across the stage, the floor creaking faintly beneath his boots.

Jack: “You know, when I first started acting, I thought the power was in the dialogue. The monologue. The speech that wins the applause.” He shakes his head. “But after a while, you realize — it’s not what you say that gets them. It’s the silence right after.”

Jeeny: smiling “The breath between meaning.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: The spotlight hummed faintly, the sound of electricity like a ghost’s whisper. Jeeny walked to the center and stood beside him, her gaze sweeping the empty seats — hundreds of eyes that weren’t there, but somehow still watching.

Jeeny: “You know what Arden’s talking about, right? He’s trying to make something truly human. Something that doesn’t exclude anyone. Something where emotion isn’t limited by vocabulary.”

Jack: nodding slowly “A theater for the heart, not the ear.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Imagine — a show that speaks to the deaf, the blind, the broken, the voiceless. Not through pity, but through presence.”

Jack: quietly “A play where everyone understands, even if no one hears a word.”

Host: The air thickened — not heavy, but charged, as though the stage itself understood the longing in their conversation.

Jack: “You think we could ever make something like that? Something pure enough to reach everyone?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not pure. But honest.” She gestures around the stage. “That’s what this space is for — it’s a vessel for empathy. When it’s done right, theater doesn’t talk at people. It lets them feel with you.”

Jack: thoughtfully “Empathy without explanation.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Yes. The kind of art that doesn’t tell you what to think — it just hands you a mirror and trusts you to see yourself.”

Host: The light flickered as if agreeing, then steadied again. The smell of the old stage — wood, dust, and time — filled the air. Jeeny closed her notebook and placed it on the edge of the stage.

Jeeny: “You know, words can be prisons sometimes. We build whole walls out of them — around feelings, around truth. But movement, sound, silence — they slip through those walls. That’s why dance can make you cry without a single line spoken.”

Jack: half-smiles, nodding “Yeah. I once saw a mime perform grief so vividly that half the audience wept. No music, no words — just a man and his hands. That was more honest than most scripts I’ve read.”

Jeeny: “That’s because language isn’t always made of words. Sometimes it’s rhythm, or light, or just the courage to be still.”

Host: The rain outside began to patter softly against the roof of the theater, blending with the faint hum of electricity and the whisper of their breathing.

Jack: looking up toward the rafters “Arden’s idea — a nonverbal piece for everyone — it’s beautiful. It’s also terrifying. No words means no hiding. The actors would have to bleed truth with their eyes, their breath, their silence.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what real art demands? To show the soul without disguise?”

Jack: after a pause “Yeah. I guess it is.”

Host: The two stood quietly for a while, watching the empty seats as though expecting them to fill with unseen faces — the ghosts of audiences past, or maybe the future souls who’d sit there one day, moved by a story without words.

Jeeny: “You know what I think?”

Jack: glancing at her “What?”

Jeeny: “I think the truest stories are already nonverbal. A mother holding her child. A soldier coming home. A lover’s eyes after a goodbye. The body remembers truths the mouth forgets.”

Jack: softly “And the audience knows, even if they don’t understand.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain grew heavier now, the rhythm finding its own melody — a sound that somehow blended with the heartbeat of the theater itself. Jeeny stepped closer to the spotlight and let its glow wash over her face. She lifted her hand, slow and deliberate, then reached it outward — toward the empty space where the audience would be.

Jack watched her — no dialogue, no script — just her movement. Her hand trembled slightly, then steadied, as if she were reaching for something invisible but real.

Jeeny turned her face toward him, her eyes glistening in the light.

Jeeny: quietly “See? You felt that, didn’t you?”

Jack: nodding “Yeah. I don’t even know what you were saying — but I heard every word.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Arden means. A theater for everyone. No barriers. Just truth, shared without translation.”

Host: The spotlight dimmed slowly, folding them into the gentle blue of the stage lights.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was full. Full of possibility, of emotion unspoken, of a thousand invisible dialogues between heartbeats.

Jack: softly “You know, maybe the world could use more of that. Less talking. More feeling.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s our next project — a story told entirely in breath and motion. A story no one can misunderstand.”

Host: She smiled — not wide, but deeply — the kind of smile that belongs to those who still believe in creation, even when words fail.

They stood together, framed by the echoing vastness of the theater, the rain their orchestra, the light their audience.

And in that moment — wordless, weightless, human — they had already begun performing it.

Because as Michael Arden dreamed,
beauty doesn’t always speak — it moves.

And sometimes, when the world grows too loud to listen,
silence becomes the most eloquent art of all.