It's amazing how, age after age, in country after country, and in

Host:
The theater was old — the kind of old that breathed.
Velvet curtains sagged under the weight of decades. The air smelled faintly of dust, wood, and ghosted applause, and the stage still shimmered faintly beneath the golden hush of the last performance. Rows of empty seats waited like quiet witnesses for something timeless to begin again.

In the center of the stage sat Jack, in a dark wool coat, a cigarette resting unlit between his fingers. He looked out at the empty seats as if they were faces. Jeeny stood in the wings, a thin script folded in her hands, her eyes shimmering in the soft halo of a dying spotlight.

On the old painted backdrop — worn from years of sets and stories — someone had scrawled a line in white chalk, bold and steady:

“It’s amazing how, age after age, in country after country, and in all languages, Shakespeare emerges as incomparable.”
— M. H. Abrams

And tonight, beneath the same roof that had carried centuries of echoes, those words began to breathe again.

Jeeny: (softly) You’ve been staring at that line for twenty minutes.

Jack: (half-smiles) Because it’s true. And terrifying.

Jeeny: (steps onto the stage) Terrifying?

Jack: (nodding) Yeah. The idea that one man could live four hundred years longer than his own heartbeat.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) You mean through his words.

Jack: (quietly) Through his understanding of people. He knew us before we even knew ourselves.

Jeeny: (gently) That’s why he’s still here. He didn’t write kings and queens — he wrote every broken thing we hide inside.

Host: The spotlight flickered, dimmed, then brightened again — as if adjusting to the rhythm of their breath. The sound of a distant rainstorm began outside, soft, then steadier, like a drumbeat to memory.

Jack: (leaning forward) You know what amazes me most? Every century thinks it’s rediscovered him. Every country claims him. Every language translates him — and somehow, he survives it.

Jeeny: (nodding) Because truth doesn’t belong to one language.

Jack: (quietly) Or one lifetime.

Jeeny: (smiling) Maybe that’s what genius really is. Not brilliance — just endless relatability.

Jack: (grinning faintly) That’s an awfully poetic way to describe immortality.

Jeeny: (sits beside him) Immortality’s just memory dressed in beauty.

Jack: (turns to her) Then Shakespeare must’ve been the best tailor who ever lived.

Jeeny: (laughs softly) He didn’t tailor people. He undressed them.

Host: The stage lights dimmed until only their faces glowed. The world outside faded — it was just them now, surrounded by velvet shadows and invisible audiences of centuries past.

Jack: (after a pause) You think anyone will ever write like that again?

Jeeny: (quietly) People will keep trying. But maybe that’s not the point.

Jack: (frowning) What’s the point then?

Jeeny: (softly) To feel like he did. To see the world and want to capture it, even knowing you’ll never hold it completely.

Jack: (leaning back) So we’re all just rehearsing eternity then.

Jeeny: (smiling) Exactly. Every artist is — whether they know it or not.

Host: The rain hit the roof harder now, filling the silence between them with rhythm. The theater seemed to breathe with it — creaking, alive, remembering.

Jack: (thoughtfully) You know, I used to think Shakespeare was overrated. All those soliloquies, those endless metaphors… felt like ornament, not meaning.

Jeeny: (softly) And now?

Jack: (quietly) Now I think he was just describing what the human heart sounds like when it’s trying to explain itself.

Jeeny: (smiling) Exactly. Every “thee” and “thou” is just someone saying, ‘I’m afraid. I’m in love. I don’t know who I am.’

Jack: (softly) And four hundred years later, we still don’t know either.

Jeeny: (gently) Maybe that’s why he still fits. Because we’re still the same creatures pretending to be modern.

Host: The spotlight shifted slightly, spilling across the floorboards like liquid gold. The dust in the air glittered — quiet galaxies caught in the pull of memory.

Jack: (after a pause) You ever wonder how he did it? Wrote so much, understood so deeply — without ever knowing us, yet knowing all of us.

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe he didn’t write us. Maybe he listened better than anyone else ever did.

Jack: (smiles faintly) Listening as an art form.

Jeeny: (nods) The truest one. Because listening makes you infinite.

Jack: (leans back, thoughtful) You think that’s why he endures? Because he turned listening into literature?

Jeeny: (gently) Because he gave our silence a vocabulary.

Host: The sound of thunder rolled faintly in the distance, the storm deepening. The old theater creaked again, like a memory nodding in agreement. Jack stood, slowly, walking toward the edge of the stage.

Jack: (quietly) Sometimes I think Shakespeare wasn’t a person — just a mirror that learned how to write.

Jeeny: (softly) Then maybe every artist is a mirror, waiting for someone to look close enough to see themselves.

Jack: (turns to her) You think that’s what we’re doing here? Staring into ghosts for proof we’re real?

Jeeny: (gently) I think that’s what stories are — a séance for the living.

Jack: (half-smiling) Then maybe that’s why I keep coming back here. To talk to the dead and remember I’m still alive.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) That’s theater, Jack. The only place where yesterday still performs for today.

Host: The rain softened, turning to a whisper against the high glass dome. The spotlight faded to a single beam that fell on the quote above the stage — Shakespeare emerges as incomparable.

The words glowed, then dimmed, like a pulse slowing into peace.

Jack: (quietly) You think there’ll ever be another Shakespeare?

Jeeny: (after a pause) No. But I think there’ll always be someone trying to find him in themselves.

Jack: (smiles) And failing beautifully.

Jeeny: (smiling) That’s what art is — beautiful failure.

Jack: (softly) You think he knew that?

Jeeny: (nodding) I think that’s why he wrote so much. Trying to fail better every time.

Host: The lights dimmed completely, leaving only the soft glow from the quote and the distant rumble of rain. The theater held its breath — centuries of it — as if the ghosts of every actor, poet, and audience leaned closer.

Host (closing):
Outside, the storm passed. The night was clean and quiet again.

Inside, the echo of Shakespeare’s words lingered — not on paper, but in the air, in the space between Jack’s steady breathing and Jeeny’s quiet smile.

“It’s amazing how, age after age, in country after country, and in all languages, Shakespeare emerges as incomparable.”

Because what is incomparable if not the human attempt to understand itself?

And as Jack and Jeeny stepped off the stage —
their footsteps soft, their silhouettes merging into shadow —
it became clear that Shakespeare hadn’t survived because he was divine.
He survived because he was human enough
to write us before we ever learned to speak ourselves.

And so the theater, breathing quietly under its century of dust,
did what it had always done best —
it listened.