Love is not weakness. It is strong. Only the sacrament of

Host: The afternoon light filtered through the stained glass windows of an old chapel, casting fragments of color across the stone floor. Dust motes drifted lazily through the air, illuminated like tiny souls suspended in prayer. The faint sound of church bells echoed from a distance — solemn, reverent, eternal.

At the back pew, Jack sat in his usual dark coat, his elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the flickering candles near the altar. Jeeny sat beside him, her hands clasped, not in worship, but in thought. Between them, an empty silence stretched — the kind that carries too much meaning to be broken easily.

Jeeny: (softly) “Pasternak said, ‘Love is not weakness. It is strong. Only the sacrament of marriage can contain it.’”

Host: Her voice seemed to merge with the echo of the bells, rising and falling like a quiet confession. Jack didn’t move — just stared at the rows of candles, their flames trembling but unbroken.

Jack: (dryly) “Contain it? Love doesn’t fit inside anything, Jeeny. Least of all marriage. That’s like trying to bottle the wind or cage lightning.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point. Marriage isn’t the cage — it’s the sanctuary. The only place where love can burn without destroying what it touches.”

Host: The organ music in the distance began — slow, heavy chords that filled the chapel like the heartbeat of time itself. Jack tilted