My daughter is in love with Adele. She listens to her every day.

Host: The sun had already sunk beyond the horizon, leaving behind a trail of rose and violet that bled into the slow pulse of the city’s night. The apartment was dim — a living room half lit by the glow of a lamp and the soft flicker of a music video playing on a tablet. A voice filled the air — Adele, singing “Someone Like You.”

Jeeny sat cross-legged on the couch, the faint shimmer of tears still fresh on her cheeks. Across from her, Jack leaned against the window, looking out over the skyline, the light from the street below cutting across his sharp face. The room was thick with that peculiar silence that only follows after music has finished speaking for the heart.

Jeeny: “Brandy Norwood said once, ‘My daughter is in love with Adele. She listens to her every day. To see someone with that much passion and soul move a 9-year-old is amazing and it’s magical.’”

Jack: softly, almost to himself “That’s the thing about real soul — it doesn’t care how old you are. It just finds you. Cuts through everything — irony, cynicism, age, armor — and lands right where you still feel human.”

Host: The song shifted to another one — “Make You Feel My Love.” The piano filled the room, slow, sincere, like it had all the time in the world. Jeeny looked at the screen, watching Adele’s face — raw, honest, completely unguarded.

Jeeny: “That’s what she meant, I think. ‘Magical.’ It’s not magic because it’s pretty — it’s magic because it’s true. When something that real can reach a child… that’s the power of art. It restores wonder.”

Jack: turns from the window, watching her “Wonder’s a rare thing. Kids still have it because they haven’t learned to doubt what they feel. Adults — we dissect it. We call it emotion, psychology, performance. Kids just call it beautiful.”

Host: The music swelled again, the chorus blooming like an ache that wanted to be remembered. Jeeny smiled faintly, her voice quiet but glowing with conviction.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what we lose when we grow up — not passion, but permission. The permission to let something move us without having to explain why. Her daughter doesn’t need to understand heartbreak to feel it in Adele’s voice. She just knows it’s real.”

Jack: “Yeah. Truth has a sound. You can’t fake it, not in music. Not in life, either.”

Host: A faint hum filled the silence after his words — the kind of hum that lives in rooms where someone has just spoken something honest.

Jeeny: “You know, I think what Brandy was really saying wasn’t just about her daughter. It was about herself — that watching her child feel something that pure reminded her of what art is supposed to do. To bridge generations. To prove that sincerity still works.”

Jack: nods slowly “That’s rare these days. Everything’s filtered, curated, produced within an inch of its life. But Adele — she doesn’t need fireworks. Just a voice, a story, and the courage to mean it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And that’s what her daughter responds to. Children are incredible at detecting truth. They don’t care about celebrity. They care about connection. The heart either beats or it doesn’t.”

Host: Jack’s grey eyes softened, the faintest hint of nostalgia flickering in them. He sat down across from her, elbows on knees.

Jack: “You ever think about how art works like inheritance? A mother loves music, passes it on to her daughter. And then, one day, the daughter will do the same — not necessarily with the same song, but with the same feeling. That’s how beauty survives. It’s not taught. It’s felt and passed down.”

Jeeny: smiling warmly “You’re right. That’s why she called it magical. Because magic isn’t about tricks — it’s about transmission. It’s one soul whispering to another, ‘You’re not alone.’”

Host: The light from the lamp flickered against the wall, stretching long shadows across their faces. The song ended, and silence took its place — but it wasn’t an absence. It was a fullness, like the world had exhaled.

Jack: “You know, it’s funny. People say music saves lives. Maybe it doesn’t save them. Maybe it just reminds them that life’s still worth feeling.”

Jeeny: whispers “Sometimes that’s the same thing.”

Host: The city outside pulsed quietly — horns, footsteps, laughter drifting through open windows — but inside, time slowed.

Jeeny: “You can’t really fake that kind of artistry. Adele doesn’t perform emotion — she embodies it. It’s not about perfection. It’s about being unafraid to bleed in public. That’s what a nine-year-old recognizes — not pain, but courage.”

Jack: “And that courage becomes contagious. You see someone be that vulnerable, and suddenly you realize maybe you can be too.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. The light made him look both weary and young — like someone standing on the border between reason and reverence.

Jack: “I think that’s why adults envy kids. They don’t armor their emotions yet. When they say ‘amazing,’ they mean it. When something moves them, they don’t fight it. They let it happen.”

Jeeny: softly, smiling at him “Maybe we all just want to get back there — to that kind of honest awe. To hear a song and not think about production or fame or trends, but just to feel.”

Jack: “To feel, and to believe it’s okay to feel. That’s the kind of simplicity most people spend a lifetime trying to reclaim.”

Host: The tablet screen dimmed and went dark. The last chord of the song seemed to hang in the air, vibrating softly like the echo of a prayer.

Jeeny reached for her notebook and wrote something down, her handwriting slow and deliberate.

Jeeny: “You know what the real miracle is? It’s not that Adele moved a nine-year-old. It’s that she reminded a grown woman — Brandy — that magic still exists. That art can still reach across years, through walls, through all the noise, and touch what’s innocent inside us.”

Jack: “Yeah. The magic isn’t in the song — it’s in the connection. One voice, one listener, one moment where truth crosses the line between people.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — revealing the room bathed in that same soft glow, two souls suspended between thought and feeling. Outside, the rain slowed to a drizzle, the sky wide and dark, holding the sound of life continuing somewhere unseen.

And as the scene faded, Brandy Norwood’s words hung like the echo of a melody —

a reminder that the most amazing thing about art isn’t how perfectly it’s made,
but how deeply it makes us remember our capacity to be moved.

Because when a voice of passion reaches the heart of a child,
and reawakens wonder in the heart of an adult,
that — more than fame, more than perfection —
is the definition of magic.