It's not the tools that you have faith in - tools are just tools.

Host: The garage smelled of dust, solder, and ambition — the kind of scent only dreamers and engineers could call home. In the corner, the dim light from a single bulb hung over a cluttered workbench, where wires tangled with circuit boards like veins of a restless machine. The air buzzed faintly — half electricity, half unspoken faith.

Outside, the rain had started, tapping against the cracked windowpanes. Inside, the space was warm — alive with the ghosts of ideas still being born.

Jack stood over a disassembled computer, its innards spread out like an autopsy of progress. His grey eyes flickered with intensity, the reflection of the bulb painting halos across the metal. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against a wooden shelf, a cup of black coffee in her hands, her brown eyes tracing the chaos on the bench with quiet amusement.

Pinned to the corkboard behind them, yellowed with age, was a quote written in black marker:
“It’s not the tools that you have faith in — tools are just tools. They work, or they don’t work. It’s people you have faith in or not. Yeah, sure, I’m still optimistic… I mean, I get pessimistic sometimes but not for long.” — Steve Jobs

Host: The quote was old, but it hummed in the air like a mantra.

Jack: (sighing) “Funny how every genius ends up saying something obvious like that. ‘It’s people, not tools.’ Easy to believe when your tools changed the world.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Maybe he didn’t mean belief in people who succeed. Maybe he meant belief in people before they do.”

Jack: “That’s a hell of a gamble. People break. Machines don’t.”

Jeeny: “Machines also don’t love. Or imagine. Or forgive.”

Host: Jack’s hands, stained with oil and ink, tightened around a screwdriver. He turned it slowly in his palm, as if it were a question he’d been carrying for too long.

Jack: “You trust people too easily.”

Jeeny: “You trust machines too much.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “At least machines don’t lie.”

Jeeny: “They do when people build them that way.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, drumming against the roof like a soft argument between heaven and gravity. Jeeny took a sip of her coffee, her reflection glimmering in the dark window beside the cluttered bench.

Jeeny: “You know what I think Jobs meant? Tools amplify whatever we already are. A hammer doesn’t make a builder, and a laptop doesn’t make a visionary. Faith has to start before the tool ever touches the hand.”

Jack: (gruffly) “Faith doesn’t build circuits.”

Jeeny: “No. But it keeps you trying when they fail.”

Host: The light flickered, the bulb swaying slightly from the vibration of the storm outside. The shadows moved across the walls like old blueprints of abandoned dreams.

Jack: “You think he ever doubted himself?”

Jeeny: “Of course. The difference is, he didn’t stop. That’s optimism — not the absence of doubt, but refusing to camp in it.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “He made it sound easy. Like optimism was a switch.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t. It’s a practice. You choose it every time the circuit fries, the deal collapses, the world shrugs. You keep choosing it because the alternative is paralysis.”

Host: Jack set the screwdriver down, the faint metallic clink punctuating her words. He looked around the room — the half-finished prototypes, the dust-covered monitors, the stack of manuals that once promised clarity.

Jack: (quietly) “You ever think optimism’s just denial with good lighting?”

Jeeny: (shaking her head) “No. Denial says everything’s fine. Optimism says everything’s broken, but fixable.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I have to. Otherwise the tools — or the people — stop meaning anything.”

Host: Her voice softened, carrying warmth that cut through the hum of machinery. Jack leaned back against the bench, his eyes distant, but not cold.

Jack: “You know, when I started this project, I thought if I just built something strong enough — something precise, reliable — it’d outlast the mess people make of things.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I realize the mess is the point. Maybe that’s where life actually happens — between the malfunctions.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Tools are the bones of progress, but people are the heart.”

Host: The rain softened, turning into a steady whisper against the glass. The two of them stood there — surrounded by tools, by noise, by effort — but the stillness between them was deeply human.

Jeeny: “You know, it’s easy to worship the machines because they don’t disappoint you. But the truth is, they don’t care about you either.”

Jack: “And people do?”

Jeeny: “Enough to hurt. Enough to try again. That’s faith.”

Host: Her eyes met his, steady and unafraid. For a moment, the tension of cynicism broke, replaced by something quieter — the acceptance of imperfection as a form of beauty.

Jack: (after a pause) “You ever get tired of believing in people?”

Jeeny: “Every day.”

Jack: “And you still do it?”

Jeeny: “Every day.”

Host: The light above them steadied, the storm easing into silence. The faint hum of electricity filled the space — alive, resilient, indifferent to despair.

Jack picked up the half-built circuit board, studying it, his expression thoughtful.

Jack: “You know, maybe you’re right. It’s not the tools. It’s the hands that hold them — and the minds that refuse to give up.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Now you sound like him.”

Jack: “No. I sound like someone finally listening.”

Host: The camera pulled back, showing the messy workshop glowing softly under the single light — a cathedral of creation. The table cluttered with failures and sparks of brilliance, the rain’s reflection shimmering on the concrete floor like liquid possibility.

And above them, the quote still gleamed on the wall — worn, but unbroken:

It’s not the tools that you have faith in — tools are just tools.
They work, or they don’t work.
It’s people you have faith in or not.
Yeah, sure, I’m still optimistic… I mean, I get pessimistic sometimes but not for long.

Host: Because faith isn’t about perfection —
it’s about persistence.

It’s the quiet decision to keep creating
in a world built to break,
to keep trusting hands that tremble,
to keep building something that just might work
— not because the tools are flawless —
but because the people who use them
refuse to stop trying.