It may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird: it would be a

Host: The morning fog still clung to the windows of the bakery, soft and pale as unformed thought. Sunlight was just beginning to slip through the mist, turning the rows of flour-dusted loaves into glowing hills of warmth and fragrance. The hum of a small radio in the corner mixed with the steady rhythm of kneading — the quiet pulse of creation itself.

Jack leaned on the counter, his sleeves rolled up, his hands powdered in flour, the faintest hint of a smirk crossing his face. Jeeny sat opposite him, her elbows resting on a wooden table, a mug of hot tea steaming between her hands. Outside, the street was waking — slow footsteps, the rustle of newspapers, the world uncoiling like a yawn.

Jeeny: softly, watching the window brighten “C. S. Lewis once said, ‘It may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird: it would be a jolly sight harder for it to learn to fly while remaining an egg. We are like eggs at present. And you cannot go on indefinitely being just an ordinary, decent egg. We must be hatched or go bad.’”

Host: The words hung in the air, gentle but insistent, like the scent of fresh bread — both comforting and awakening. Jack stopped kneading, brushing his hands on his apron.

Jack: “So… we’re all eggs now? Waiting to crack open into something divine?”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “Not divine. Just alive. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “You say that like being ordinary isn’t enough.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t. Not forever.”

Host: The radio hummed a soft tune — something wistful, like a half-remembered dream. The light grew stronger, catching dust motes that danced like tiny sparks between them.

Jack: “You know what I think? People talk about transformation as if it’s noble. But breaking an egg is messy. Painful. You lose everything that held you together.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly the point. You can’t fly if you keep protecting your shell.”

Jack: snorts “You ever wonder if the shell’s there for a reason? Maybe it’s not fear — maybe it’s structure. The world’s not kind to birds who hatch too early.”

Jeeny: “And it’s far less kind to those who never hatch at all.”

Host: The flour dust swirled faintly in the light, settling on their shoulders like a thin veil. The bakery, usually filled with easy chatter, felt more like a sanctuary — sacred in its stillness, alive in its waiting.

Jack: “So what? You’re saying everyone’s supposed to ‘break open’ one day? Quit their jobs, chase dreams, find enlightenment? Sounds like a self-help book to me.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s not about quitting. It’s about becoming. Lewis didn’t mean hatch into someone else — he meant hatch into yourself. To risk change instead of rotting in comfort.”

Jack: shrugs “Comfort’s underrated. Nobody gets hurt there.”

Jeeny: quietly “Nobody grows there, either.”

Host: A pause, long and thoughtful. The oven timer beeped softly — a small, human sound that cut through the silence. Jack turned, pulling out a tray of golden loaves, the scent rising like a hymn.

Jack: “You know, I once tried to start something new. Left a stable job, took a leap. Everyone said I was brave — until I failed. I lost money, sleep, faith. Maybe that was my hatching moment. Or maybe I just cracked.”

Jeeny: “No. You cracked because that’s how the light gets in.”

Jack: gruffly “That’s poetic. Doesn’t change the fact it hurts.”

Jeeny: “Of course it hurts. So does birth. So does growth. The pain’s not proof of failure — it’s the sign you’re not done yet.”

Host: The sunlight touched the rim of her mug, turning the tea’s surface to amber fire. Jack stared at it — at her — as if seeing something he had long avoided.

Jack: “You talk like everyone gets a second act. But some people — they just… go bad. They never hatch.”

Jeeny: softly, eyes on the steam rising from her tea “Then maybe that’s the tragedy Lewis was warning us about. Not failure — stagnation. The egg that refuses to break isn’t safe, Jack. It’s decaying.”

Jack: “You really believe everyone has wings?”

Jeeny: “I believe everyone has something that wants to. Even if it’s buried deep.”

Host: The wind rattled the old windowpane, scattering a few petals from a wilting flower on the sill. The bakery smelled of warmth, of beginnings, of endings baked into one another.

Jack: “You know, I think people hide in decency. They say, ‘I’m a good person,’ and stop there. As if goodness is enough. Maybe that’s what Lewis meant — being ‘ordinary and decent’ without daring more is just another way of rotting politely.”

Jeeny: nodding “Exactly. There’s a kind of moral laziness in being comfortable. You think being kind or honest is the finish line. But it’s just the shell — integrity without courage.”

Jack: pauses, then quietly “So what about those who try and fail? What happens to the bird that hatches but can’t fly?”

Jeeny: “It learns again. That’s the beauty of it — there’s no rule that says you only get one chance. Even broken wings heal. What matters is the trying.”

Host: The sun had risen fully now, spilling over the counter, glinting off the still-warm loaves. The world outside was waking in earnest — cars, voices, the laughter of schoolchildren breaking the spell.

Jack: “You ever get scared, Jeeny? Of cracking too much? Of becoming someone you don’t recognize?”

Jeeny: “All the time. But fear’s not the enemy. Fear’s the warmth before hatching. It means something inside you is alive enough to tremble.”

Jack: “And if I’m too tired to tremble?”

Jeeny: “Then you rest — but don’t confuse resting with staying an egg.”

Host: Jack let out a slow laugh, tired and real, shaking his head as if conceding to a truth too simple to argue with. He reached for a loaf, tore it in half, and handed her a piece. The steam rose between them, fragrant and pure.

Jack: “So what you’re saying is — we don’t get to stay unbroken forever.”

Jeeny: “No. And thank God for that.”

Jack: half-smiling “Because otherwise we’d never learn to fly.”

Host: The light caught her smile, turning it into something quiet and radiant — like the first warmth on a cold morning.

Outside, a bird darted past the window, its wings flashing in the light — brief, free, certain.

For a moment, Jack followed it with his eyes, his hands still dusted in flour, his heart caught between cynicism and wonder.

Then he looked at Jeeny, and for the first time in years, he didn’t feel like an egg at all.

Host: The day began in earnest. The ovens glowed, the streets filled, and the air outside shimmered with possibility.

Because in every heart — beneath the shell of reason, comfort, and fear — there waits a small, trembling thing with wings.

And the only tragedy greater than breaking… is never daring to hatch.