It's the continuation of everyone's childhood to see these young

Host:
The sunset was bleeding into the river, staining the world in quiet shades of red and sorrow. The park was nearly empty — only the whisper of wind through the trees, the swing creaking softly, and the faint, melancholic laughter of a child echoing from memory’s distance.

The bench faced the playground, its paint chipped, its wood damp from an earlier rain. On it sat Jack, shoulders hunched, hands clasped between his knees. His grey eyes were fixed on the empty swings, on the stillness that always feels louder after laughter dies.

Jeeny sat beside him, her dark hair caught by the last light of the day, her brown eyes reflecting gold and grief. She held a folded newspaper in her hands, the words blurred slightly where the paper had caught a tear or two before it dried.

She read quietly, her voice barely more than breath —

“It’s the continuation of everyone’s childhood to see these young children who grow up full of life, full of intelligence, full of a sense of wonder. And within an instant they’re gone from this world. It’s terrible.”
— Lucien Bouchard

The quote lingered, trembling in the air, like something too fragile to touch.

Jeeny: softly “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard something so simple sound so devastating. It’s like he wasn’t just talking about death — he was talking about the death of innocence itself.”

Jack: quietly “He was. He knew what loss does to a society. When a child dies, it’s not just a life gone — it’s a mirror shattered. A piece of everyone’s hope disappears.”

Host:
The wind shifted, carrying with it the smell of wet earth and the faint sound of church bells from somewhere beyond the trees. The world felt fragile — as if made of glass, and already cracking.

Jeeny: “Children are the only proof that the world still remembers how to begin again. When they go, it’s not just their parents who grieve — it’s everyone who ever dared to dream that things could get better.”

Jack: nodding, his voice low “Yeah. Because every child is a kind of promise. Not the kind we write down — the kind we whisper to ourselves when no one’s listening. ‘Maybe they’ll do what we couldn’t. Maybe they’ll fix what we broke.’”

Host:
A leaf drifted down between them, landing softly on the newspaper. Neither of them moved to brush it away. The air carried a still heaviness, the kind that settles when grief is too large to express.

Jeeny: quietly “It’s the continuation of everyone’s childhood — I love that phrase. He’s right. When we look at children, we’re not just seeing them. We’re seeing who we used to be — before cynicism, before calculation, before fear.”

Jack: half-smiling, weary “And then they remind us of everything we lost just to survive adulthood.”

Jeeny: “And when they’re gone, it’s like losing that second chance all over again.”

Host:
A single swing shifted, pushed gently by the wind, squealing faintly. The sound was almost unbearable — a ghost of laughter, a memory refusing to leave.

Jack: after a long pause “You know, I used to think the hardest part of loss was accepting it. But it’s not. It’s realizing how easily it can happen. One second they’re here — alive, messy, loud — and the next, they’re just… history.”

Jeeny: whispering “That’s what makes it so cruel. They never even get to understand the world before it takes them away.”

Host:
The sky deepened, the last of the light fading into purple dusk. A child’s forgotten toy — a small red ball — rolled slowly across the grass, carried by the wind. Jeeny’s eyes followed it until it stopped at the edge of the path.

Jeeny: softly “I read once that children see miracles in everything because they haven’t learned what ‘impossible’ means yet. And when we lose them, the world loses a little bit of its magic.”

Jack: turning to her “Maybe that’s why adults are so desperate to create meaning. We’re trying to replace what we destroyed — the wonder, the purity, the belief that things can be kind.”

Jeeny: tearfully smiling “Do you think that’s even possible?”

Jack: quietly, after a pause “Only if we start living like the world still deserves them.”

Host:
The streetlight flickered on, spilling pale gold across the playground. For a moment, it almost looked alive again — the swings glinting, the slide shining, as if children might return at any second. But the silence held.

Jeeny: gazing at the light “You know, we talk about progress all the time — technology, intelligence, global unity — but when a child dies, all of that feels like a lie. All that brilliance, and we still can’t protect innocence.”

Jack: bitterly “Because we don’t want to protect it. We exploit it. We package wonder into entertainment, turn curiosity into commerce, and then wonder why they lose their spark so fast.”

Jeeny: shaking her head gently “Maybe that’s what Bouchard meant — the continuation of everyone’s childhood. When we fail to keep that alive, we’re not just losing kids. We’re losing our capacity to feel alive.”

Jack: softly, staring out into the darkness “Yeah. The end of a child’s laughter is the end of the world in miniature.”

Host:
The rain began again, soft and steady this time, like quiet applause from heaven. The light shimmered against the falling drops, blurring everything into watercolor — pain and beauty blending together until neither could be separated.

Jeeny closed the newspaper gently and laid it beside her, her hand trembling just slightly. Jack took a slow breath, the kind that sounds like an apology you can’t quite say.

Jeeny: quietly “It’s terrible, yes. But maybe the point of seeing it — of feeling it — is to remind us not to turn away. Maybe mourning is the last act of innocence we still have.”

Jack: nodding “Maybe. Maybe grief is just love with no place left to go.”

Host:
The camera of the mind slowly pulled back — two figures sitting on a park bench under the soft drizzle, a playground behind them, the echo of childhood still trembling in the air.

The river shimmered nearby, reflecting a thousand city lights — each one a fragile reminder of the lives that flicker and vanish, yet somehow still matter.

And the narrator’s voice came, soft as rain, steady as truth:

That to lose a child is to lose the world as it was meant to be —
bright, unbroken, curious, forgiving.

That the death of innocence, anywhere,
is a wound the entire human race must carry.

And that perhaps Lucien Bouchard’s words
were not just grief,
but a challenge —
to live as though every child’s laughter
is the sound that keeps the universe from collapsing.

Host:
And so, beneath the slow, silver rain,
Jack and Jeeny sat in the company of that absence —
two souls mourning not just what was lost,
but what it meant to ever have been that innocent at all.

And the swings,
still and glistening under the streetlight,
kept their silent vigil —
guarding the echo of childhood
that the world must never forget.