Kids deserve the right to think that they can change the world.

Host: The afternoon light slanted through the tall windows of an old library, turning the dust in the air into golden constellations. The room smelled of paper and rain, the kind of scent that carries both memory and hope. Outside, children’s voices echoed faintly from the schoolyard — high, wild, unfiltered, as if the world were still young enough to listen.

At a table near the center sat Jack, surrounded by open books and half-written notes, his brow furrowed, a man at war with his own disillusionment. Across from him, Jeeny watched the light spill across the pages, her hands folded, her eyes alive with the calm certainty of belief.

Jeeny: “Lois Lowry once said, ‘Kids deserve the right to think that they can change the world.’”

Jack: “Deserve? Maybe. But that doesn’t make it true.”

Host: The clock ticked softly in the corner, its rhythm echoing like a slow heartbeat. Jeeny’s gaze lifted, steady, unshaken.

Jeeny: “It’s not about truth. It’s about permission. About allowing the young to imagine something better before the world convinces them they can’t.”

Jack: “So we lie to them — tell them the world listens, when really it doesn’t?”

Jeeny: “No. We let them dream loud enough that the world has to listen.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the windowpane, scattering a few pages off the table. Jack sighed, reaching to collect them, his voice low, cynical but tired.

Jack: “Dreams are kindling. The world’s rain. You teach them hope, and life teaches them limits.”

Jeeny: “But without kindling, no fire ever starts.”

Jack: “Fires burn out.”

Jeeny: “Some fires light cities.”

Host: The air between them tightened — the space electric, alive with the quiet clash of two kinds of truth.

Jeeny: “Do you remember when you believed you could change something?”

Jack: “I was twelve. I wanted to fix hunger. Save forests. Stop wars. Then I grew up and met reality.”

Jeeny: “And reality won?”

Jack: “No. Reality exists. That’s not winning — that’s gravity.”

Jeeny: “And yet even gravity didn’t stop us from flying.”

Host: Jack paused, his eyes narrowing, a reluctant smile flickering at the edge of his mouth.

Jack: “You always have a metaphor ready.”

Jeeny: “Because metaphors are bridges — they let us walk from what is to what could be.”

Jack: “Kids don’t need bridges. They need guardrails. The world’s already full of broken idealists.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the world’s problem isn’t idealism — it’s surrender.”

Host: A child’s laughter drifted in through the window — bright, untamed. Jack turned toward the sound unconsciously, the edges of his expression softening.

Jack: “You really think kids can change anything? They barely understand how the world works.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what makes them dangerous. They don’t know what’s ‘impossible’ yet.”

Jack: “And you think ignorance is power?”

Jeeny: “I think innocence is. It’s the last honest form of courage.”

Host: The light shifted, painting Jeeny in gold and shadow. Jack studied her, the cynic in him wavering under the weight of something older — maybe memory, maybe loss.

Jack: “You talk like hope’s a skill.”

Jeeny: “It is. And we unteach it too soon.”

Jack: “You sound like you still believe in saving the world.”

Jeeny: “No. I believe in saving the belief.”

Host: The rain began again, light against the glass, a steady percussion to the melody of her conviction.

Jack: “You think that belief can survive what the world does to people?”

Jeeny: “It can if someone protects it. Every generation needs guardians of hope — people who remind children that the world bends, even if it bends slowly.”

Jack: “And who reminds the guardians?”

Jeeny: “The children themselves.”

Host: A silence followed — thick, sacred, full. The ticking clock, the rain, the fading sound of children outside — all became part of the same heartbeat.

Jeeny leaned forward, her voice gentler now.

Jeeny: “Think of the ones who did change it — Rosa Parks, Malala, Greta Thunberg, the kids marching for a planet that’s burning beneath them. They didn’t wait for permission. They believed. And that belief shook governments.”

Jack: “And yet the world’s still burning.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s not their failure — maybe it’s ours for making them believe alone.”

Host: Jack looked down, his fingers brushing the spine of a book — The Giver, its cover worn, its message ageless.

Jack: “You know, I read this when I was young. Thought it was about control. Now I see it’s about memory — about the cost of forgetting what we were meant to feel.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Lowry didn’t write it just for kids. She wrote it for the adults who forgot how to see through a child’s eyes.”

Jack: “You mean the eyes that still believe every action matters.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The eyes that still look at the world and say, ‘Why not?’ instead of ‘What’s the point?’”

Host: The library lights flickered, as if agreeing with her. Outside, the rain began to slow, its rhythm gentler, a soft applause for conviction.

Jack: “You know what scares me, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “That maybe we grow up not because we get wiser — but because we give up on wonder.”

Jeeny: “Then let’s unlearn that kind of growing up.”

Jack: “You think it’s possible?”

Jeeny: “You’re asking that in a room full of stories written by people who imagined worlds that didn’t exist — and then made them real?”

Host: Jack smiled — this time without resistance. He looked toward the window, where the last few raindrops clung stubbornly to the glass, refracting the glow of the world outside.

Jack: “Maybe we don’t teach kids to change the world. Maybe we remind them it’s still possible.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Lowry meant. Kids deserve permission to believe. The world tells them ‘no’ soon enough. Someone has to whisper, ‘Yes.’”

Host: The bell rang in the distance — school dismissal, the sound of joy rushing through puddles. Jack and Jeeny watched the figures running by, the wild colors of raincoats and laughter blending into a blur of life.

Jack: “You know… maybe the world doesn’t need more rules. Maybe it just needs to protect that sound.”

Jeeny: “The sound of possibility.”

Jack: “Yeah. The sound of belief before it breaks.”

Host: The light shifted once more, warm now, like the world itself had remembered something ancient — the tremor of youth, the audacity of hope.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… maybe the world doesn’t change because of the kids. Maybe it changes because, for a moment, they make the adults remember who they were.”

Host: The camera pulled back, the library growing smaller, their silhouettes framed by rain and light. Outside, the children ran — free, unknowing, unstoppable. Inside, two grown souls sat quietly, re-learning the courage of innocence.

And in that moment, the world — tired, complicated, beautiful — exhaled.

For it remembered, at last,
that every revolution begins
with the dream of a child.

Fade out.