Luck affects everything. Let your hook always be cast; in the

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving the city street glistening under the pale glow of the streetlights. The air smelled of wet concrete and distant coffee. Inside a small riverside café, two figures sat by the window, their reflections shimmering faintly in the glass. Jack leaned back in his chair, a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers, while Jeeny cupped her hands around a steaming mug.

The river outside murmured, slow and silent, as if listening.

Jack: “You ever think how much of life is just… luck, Jeeny? Ovid wasn’t wrong — luck affects everything. But we pretend it’s skill, or effort, or fate, because that sounds prettier.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound like we’re just driftwood, Jack. Don’t you believe in trying, in casting your hook, like he said? Even if the fish never comes?”

Host: The light from the lamp above them flickered, throwing shadows across their faces. Jack’s grey eyes caught the amber glow, cool and sharp, while Jeeny’s brown eyes reflected it like embers in dark water.

Jack: “Trying? Sure. But that’s not the point. The point is that it’s a lottery. You can cast your hook a thousand times, and the one idiot who does it once — gets the fish. Look at history. People call it ‘genius’, but most of it’s just luck showing up in the right decade.”

Jeeny: “That’s easy to say when you’ve stopped believing in anything but odds. But what about people who never had the chance? The farmers, the workers, the children who still try even when everything’s stacked against them? Are they just losers in your lottery?”

Host: A gust of wind pressed against the window, scattering a few leaves across the glass. The café music — soft piano — barely filled the silence between their words.

Jack: “Losers? No. Survivors. But survival isn’t the same as reward. The world doesn’t hand out justice, Jeeny. It hands out probabilities. You ever read about Van Gogh? The guy died poor, insane, never sold a painting — and now his work is worth hundreds of millions. He cast his hook, sure, but the fish came decades after he was gone. That’s not fate. That’s dumb luck.”

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly why Ovid said what he did. You still have to cast the hook, even when the stream looks empty. Van Gogh still painted, Jack. He lived in poverty, but he never stopped. He didn’t know there’d be a fish waiting — he just believed the stream was worth casting into.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, his hands clasped, brows furrowed, his voice dropping low — like the sound of gravel underfoot.

Jack: “Belief doesn’t change odds, Jeeny. If anything, it just blinds you to them. You can tell a child to believe all they want — but belief won’t feed them. You can tell a poor man to keep trying — but he’ll still drown in the same river while someone else gets the catch.”

Jeeny: “Then why do you even bother living, Jack, if it’s all a roll of dice? Why not just sit on the shore and wait for the fish to jump into your lap?”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. The smoke from his cigarette curled between them like a ghost. Jeeny’s voice trembled — not from fear, but from frustration, a kind of quiet anger wrapped in care.

Jack: “Because doing nothing feels worse. That’s the irony. You do everything right, knowing it probably won’t matter — and still, you can’t stop. That’s human nature. We keep casting, not because we believe, but because we can’t help it.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. We cast because we have hope. Hope isn’t about certainty. It’s about defiance. About saying — even if I never catch a fish, I’ll still stand by the river, because that’s who I am.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, raw and warm. Outside, the river caught the reflection of a passing train, a silver streak slicing through the dark. Jack’s eyes followed it, the light gliding over his face like a slow confession.

Jack: “You think hope feeds people? You think it built bridges or launched rockets or cured disease? No, Jeeny. That was calculation, science, money, and yes — luck. The right idea, at the right time, in the right hands.”

Jeeny: “And what do you think pushed those people to even start, Jack? Einstein didn’t stumble into relativity by chance. He dreamed about it, obsessed over it, failed countless times. Every act of genius begins with an act of faith — faith that there’s something waiting in the stream, unseen.”

Host: Jack tapped the ash off his cigarette, watching it fall like tiny embers onto the floor. His voice softened, barely above a whisper.

Jack: “Faith. That’s the word you always come back to. Maybe because you can’t stand the idea that the world doesn’t care.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because I’ve seen what happens when people stop caring. The moment we stop casting, we become the riverbank — lifeless, watching everything pass by. I’d rather be disappointed than numb.”

Host: A long silence. The rain began again, light and persistent, like memory tapping at the window. Jack’s face relaxed, the lines of tension slowly unfolding.

Jack: “You sound like my mother. She used to pray every night before my father’s surgeries. Said the same thing — ‘just keep casting’. He died anyway.”

Jeeny: “I’m sorry, Jack.”

Jack: “Don’t be. It taught me what I needed to know — sometimes, there’s no fish. Sometimes, there’s just a river.”

Host: Jeeny reached out, her hand trembling slightly, but steady in intention. The light caught on the thin silver ring she wore, a tiny glint of something pure amid the gloom.

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even a river without fish still reflects the sky. Maybe that’s what Ovid meant — that there’s meaning in the casting, not the catch.”

Jack: “Meaning, huh?”

Jeeny: “Yes. We cast our hooks not because we expect reward, but because we’re alive. Because even luck, as random as it is, only visits those who are still waiting by the water.”

Host: Jack looked down, the ashtray full, the smoke thinning. The rain outside had softened into a quiet mist, and in its haze, the river shimmered — gentle, endless, indifferent, but somehow still beautiful.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? Maybe you’re right. Maybe the point isn’t to win the lottery — maybe it’s just to keep buying the ticket.”

Jeeny: “Or to keep believing the river still has something to give.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — slowly, softly — showing two silhouettes against the window, the rain blurring their shapes into one. The cigarette smoke rose like a ghost, twisting, fading, merging with the mist outside.

The river flowed on — dark, shimmering, and full of quiet possibility.

And in that moment, both knew: luck might be a stranger, but hope is the one who keeps us casting.