My feelings about my mortality are less selfish than they used to

Host: The morning was gray, the kind that seems to press on the skin, damp and quiet. A thin fog drifted over the cemetery, curling between the headstones like a ghost tracing names it once knew. The trees stood bare, their branches like black veins against a pale sky. A crow called once — low, broken, echoing.

At the far edge, near a bench slick with dew, sat Jack and Jeeny. A single white rose lay on the stone between them, its petals trembling in the breeze.

Jack’s hands were folded, his grey eyes heavy and far away, as though watching something that had already passed. Jeeny, her hair pulled back, coat wrapped tight, leaned forward, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jeeny: “He said, ‘My feelings about my mortality are less selfish than they used to be. I used to affect a cavalier attitude to death; now I see it from my son’s perspective.’ Rufus Sewell.”

Host: The name hung in the air like the aftertaste of truth — bitter, quiet, and somehow tender. A gust of wind carried a whisper of earth, grass, and memory.

Jack: “It’s strange. You spend your youth thinking death is a rumor. A distant storm that will never touch you. Then one day, you wake up and realize the thunder’s already under your skin.”

Jeeny: “Because you’ve learned to love someone more than yourself.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe because you’ve run out of lies that make you feel immortal.”

Host: He reached down and picked up a pebble, turning it between his fingers, watching it darken with rain. His voice was low, rough — the voice of a man who had buried too many feelings behind logic.

Jack: “When I was twenty, I used to joke about death. Said I didn’t care how I went — car crash, plane, whatever. I thought it made me sound brave. But it wasn’t bravery. It was arrogance. The arrogance of someone who hasn’t realized who’ll be left behind.”

Jeeny: “You weren’t arrogant, Jack. Just... untouched. You didn’t have someone to see you disappear.”

Host: The fog shifted, and the sunlight began to filter through — faint threads of gold unraveling the gray. Jeeny’s eyes softened, though her words carried the weight of unspoken understanding.

Jeeny: “It’s different now, isn’t it? Mortality stops being a mirror when you become someone’s reflection. When there’s someone who would hurt to lose you, your death stops belonging to you.”

Jack: “That’s the cruel part. You live your whole life thinking of death as an escape, then one day it turns into a theft.”

Jeeny: “Of them, not of you.”

Host: He looked up, the lines around his eyes catching the light, every one a story of what he’d seen, lost, and hidden. The crow called again — a raw, melancholic sound that felt less like mourning and more like memory.

Jack: “When Rufus said that... about his son — I understood it. I’ve never been afraid of dying. But the idea of my boy growing up wondering what kind of man his father was... that terrifies me.”

Jeeny: “Because suddenly, your life isn’t just yours. It’s his story too.”

Jack: “Exactly. You stop being the center. You become the thread. You want to make sure it doesn’t snap before it reaches him.”

Host: The air grew still, save for the flutter of leaves against the stone. The silence wasn’t empty — it was full, breathing, alive with things left unsaid.

Jeeny: “Funny, isn’t it? How we only learn selflessness through mortality. You can spend decades chasing success, money, meaning — but one glimpse of your child’s eyes when you talk about the future, and suddenly, you’d give it all just to stay a little longer.”

Jack: “You think that’s love?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s understanding.”

Host: He chuckled, a sound dry as dust, but with a trace of warmth. He glanced at the stone in front of them — a simple marker, unadorned, save for a name, a pair of dates, and the faint engraving of a feather.

Jack: “My father used to talk like that. He wasn’t poetic about it — he’d just say, ‘When I’m gone, take care of what I leave behind.’ I thought he meant the house, the tools, the money. I get it now. He meant me.”

Jeeny: “And now you mean someone else.”

Jack: “Yeah. It’s a cycle of borrowed time.”

Host: The rain began to fall — gentle, steady, like the world was remembering to breathe. Jeeny reached into her pocket, pulled out another rose, and laid it next to the first. Her hands lingered there for a moment, her fingers trembling just slightly.

Jeeny: “Do you ever wonder what it’ll be like — to be gone, but still alive in someone’s habits? Like how he’ll drink his coffee the way you did, or laugh at the same bad jokes?”

Jack: “That’s the closest thing to immortality we get. Not statues, not fame. Just... patterns that outlive our names.”

Jeeny: “And if that’s the case, then mortality isn’t the end. It’s an exchange.”

Jack: “An exchange?”

Jeeny: “You give the world your time. And it gives your love to someone else.”

Host: The words hung there, suspended between rain and memory, as the fog began to lift. The sunlight spread wider now, catching the moist air, turning it into a soft, golden haze. The gravestones no longer looked solemn — they looked human, touched by warmth, by continuity.

Jack: “You know, I used to think the point of life was to not waste time. Now I think it’s about learning to give it away to the right people.”

Jeeny: “That’s what parenthood is, isn’t it? A quiet kind of sacrifice. You start living for echoes, not applause.”

Jack: “Echoes...” he smiled faintly “I like that.”

Host: The crow took flight, its wings slicing through the fog. Its shadow moved over them like a passing thought, then was gone.

Jeeny: “So... you’re not afraid anymore?”

Jack: “Afraid? Always. But not for me. For him. For what happens if he looks at the world and doesn’t see enough good left in it to keep going.”

Jeeny: “Then make sure he sees it in you, while you can.”

Host: The rain stopped. The clouds began to part, and a thin blue ribbon of sky appeared — fragile, but undeniable. The air smelled of wet earth and something clean, something almost like renewal.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? Death used to make me feel powerful. Like mocking it made me untouchable. Now it humbles me.”

Jeeny: “Because love humbles everything it touches.”

Jack: “Then maybe that’s what Rufus meant — that death isn’t the enemy. Selfishness is.”

Jeeny: “And love is the cure.”

Host: A bell tolled in the distance, its sound echoing through the valley, soft, slow, resonant. Jack stood, brushing the dew from his coat, and looked once more at the name carved into the stone.

Jack: “He was forty when I was born. I’m thirty-five now. Funny how quickly those numbers catch up to you.”

Jeeny: “They don’t catch up, Jack. They circle back. You’re living what he once felt — and someday, your son will feel this too.”

Jack: “You think that’s comfort?”

Jeeny: “It’s connection.”

Host: The fog was almost gone now. The light stretched across the grass, glinting on the edges of the stones, making the names shimmer like memory brought to life. Jack turned to Jeeny, his expression softer than the sky.

Jack: “Then maybe that’s how we defeat death — not by denying it, but by making sure it never travels alone.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: They walked away from the bench, their footsteps soft on the wet ground, their shadows long, merging as the light grew stronger. The rose petals behind them trembled once more in the breeze, then lay still, bright against the stone — a final note in the quiet music of mortality.

Host: “In the end, death loses not because we survive it, but because we love through it. Mortality is no longer a wall — it’s a window, through which one life continues into another.”