Men stumble over pebbles, never over mountains.

Host: The morning light broke through the factory’s high windows, spilling thin beams of dusty gold onto the floor. The machines were silent now — a rare moment of stillness before the day’s grind began again. The air smelled of iron, oil, and faint rain from the night before.

At a corner table, two figures sat — Jack, in his work jacket, his hands still marked with grease, and Jeeny, her notebook open, a half-finished sketch of gears and hands. The factory clock ticked above them, slow and indifferent.

Jack looked tired. Jeeny looked thoughtful. Between them sat two cups of coffee, steam curling into the cold air like smoke from some invisible fire.

Jeeny: “You ever read Marilyn French?”

Jack: (grunts) “Only her name. Why?”

Jeeny: “‘Men stumble over pebbles, never over mountains.’ She said that. Been thinking about it all morning.”

Host: Jack rubbed his temples, his brow furrowed, eyes narrowing as if the quote were some riddle carved into stone.

Jack: “Sounds clever. But you know what it really means? People screw up over small things, not the big ones. Because the big ones — you see them coming. The small ones, they sneak under your foot.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But isn’t that strange? We prepare for the mountains — the disasters, the heartbreaks, the big failures. Yet it’s the pebbles — the tiny doubts, the careless words — that make us fall.”

Host: The morning hum of distant engines began to rise, like a low, living heartbeat through the walls. Jack leaned forward, his grey eyes sharp, his voice low and dry.

Jack: “You’re talking about life like it’s poetry again. The truth is, people trip over pebbles because they don’t look where they’re walking. They’re too busy staring at the damn mountain.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe they stare at the mountain because they’re afraid of looking down. Down is where the real mess lies — insecurities, regrets, unspoken things.”

Jack: “You always have to make it emotional, don’t you? Sometimes a pebble’s just bad luck. Wrong step, wrong time.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s never just luck. Every stumble says something. Even in history — empires didn’t fall because of mountains. They fell because of cracks, little cracks that everyone ignored. Rome wasn’t crushed in a day; it rotted from within.”

Host: The light shifted as a cloud passed outside, dimming the room. Jack’s face darkened, his features etched in shadow. He tapped the table with a calloused finger, thinking.

Jack: “So what are you saying? That the big stuff doesn’t matter?”

Jeeny: “It matters. But it’s rare. The small things — they’re what we live in. Every small choice, every small cruelty, every small kindness. They’re the pebbles under our feet. We don’t stumble over mountains because we never walk on them. We live among pebbles.”

Host: The clock ticked louder, or maybe it only seemed that way. The factory floor glimmered faintly under the shifting light. Jack looked away, eyes drifting to the half-open door where the rain outside had left a thin trail of mud.

Jack: “You know what? I’ll tell you who doesn’t stumble over pebbles — soldiers. When you’ve seen war, when you’ve buried your friends, the small things stop mattering. You step over them. You stop caring.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “And that’s the tragedy. Because once you stop caring about the small things, you stop being human.”

Host: The silence that followed felt heavy — not angry, just deep. The kind that comes when two truths collide and neither can destroy the other.

Jack: “You sound like my sister. She used to talk about ‘small beauties.’ A sunrise, a laugh, the smell of bread. Then life crushed her with bills, kids, exhaustion. Pebbles, Jeeny — they’re what kill you slowly.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But they’re also what keep you alive. The same things that break you are the things that remind you you’re still here.”

Host: A shaft of sunlight returned, cutting across Jeeny’s face. Her eyes glowed — warm, unwavering.

Jeeny: “You remember the Challenger disaster? 1986?”

Jack: “Yeah. The shuttle that exploded.”

Jeeny: “Do you know why it happened?”

Jack: “Some O-ring failure, wasn’t it?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. A tiny rubber seal. One small part ignored because they were rushing. That pebble brought down a mountain of genius. That’s what French meant — it’s the little things that ruin or redeem us.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He stared at the coffee in front of him, watching the last curls of steam rise and fade.

Jack: “You think people can fix that? See every pebble before they step on it?”

Jeeny: “Not see — feel. Awareness isn’t in the eyes; it’s in the heart. You can’t watch every step, but you can walk with care.”

Jack: “That sounds exhausting.”

Jeeny: “Living blindly is worse.”

Host: The room filled with a fragile stillness. Outside, a bird landed on the windowsill, shook off a few drops of rain, then flew away again — its brief presence unnoticed by all but Jeeny.

Jack: “You know, I think people need mountains. They need big problems to feel alive. Wars, revolutions, ambitions. Nobody writes songs about pebbles.”

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s why they keep falling. Because they only sing to the mountains and ignore the ground they walk on.”

Host: Jack let out a slow laugh — half amusement, half surrender.

Jack: “You always win these, you know.”

Jeeny: “No one wins them, Jack. We just try to see a little clearer.”

Host: The machinery in the distance began to stir, groaning like old giants waking. The day was about to begin again. Jack rose, pulled on his jacket, and looked at Jeeny — really looked at her this time.

Jack: “You know what? Maybe I’ve been tripping on the same pebble for years — thinking the next promotion, the next bonus, the next break would make it all make sense.”

Jeeny: “And?”

Jack: “And maybe it’s time I stop staring at the mountain.”

Host: Jeeny smiled — a small, knowing smile that carried both hope and forgiveness. She closed her notebook and stood, brushing off the faint dust from her skirt.

Jeeny: “Then lift your foot, Jack. There’s a whole world beneath it.”

Host: The clock struck eight. The machines came alive, filling the factory with its old heartbeat again — loud, rhythmic, relentless. Jack and Jeeny walked toward the door, their shadows stretching across the floor like long, crossing lines.

Outside, the rain had stopped. The ground glistened — every pebble catching the morning light like a thousand tiny mirrors.

Host: The camera pulls back — the factory, the street, the two figures stepping out into a world of small, beautiful, and dangerous details. The mountains still loom in the distance, but now, for the first time, they watch their steps.

And somewhere, beneath the sound of machines and wind, Marilyn French’s truth lingers — that it is never the mountains that bring us down, but the pebbles we forget to see.