My greatest strength as a child, I realize now, was my

Host:
The library was almost empty, bathed in the gentle light of early evening. Dust motes floated lazily through the golden air, suspended between the tall, solemn shelves that held stories older than memory. Outside, the city murmured its restless song — but in here, time had slowed to a hush, and imagination had taken its throne.

Jack sat at a wooden table near the window, surrounded by a fortress of books he hadn’t opened. His hands, scarred from work, rested on a blank notebook — a battlefield between thought and silence. His eyes, those sharp grey mirrors, wandered the room with the distracted stillness of a man searching for something lost long ago.

Across from him, Jeeny appeared like a page come to life — barefoot in spirit if not in form, her hair loosely tied, a pencil tucked behind her ear. She was sketching in a small journal, her fingers moving softly, like she was coaxing worlds out of nothing.

The sunlight hit her through the tall glass, and for a moment she looked less like a person and more like the embodiment of the thing Jack had forgotten: wonder.

Jeeny:
(Without looking up)
Barbara Corcoran once said, “My greatest strength as a child, I realize now, was my imagination. While every other kid was reading and writing, I had seven whole hours a day to practice my imagination. When do you get that space in your life, ever?”

(She pauses, smiling faintly)
I think about that sometimes — about how rare space like that is now.

Jack:
(Smiling wryly)
Seven hours of imagination a day? Most people can’t go seven minutes without checking their phone.

Jeeny:
Exactly. That’s why I envy children. They don’t create to be seen. They create because they can’t help it.

Jack:
And then we grow up, and imagination becomes… a luxury. Something you do between deadlines.

Jeeny:
(Smiling softly)
Or something you lose because no one gives you permission to dream anymore.

Host:
The light shifted slightly, painting their faces in amber. Jack’s hand twitched near his notebook, as if a thought — fragile and shy — was waiting to be born.

Jack:
When I was a kid, I used to build things out of junk. Old parts, wires, scraps of metal. I’d spend hours imagining machines that could do the impossible — fly, talk, think.

Jeeny:
And what happened?

Jack:
I started building for other people. They gave me rules, budgets, deadlines. The machines still worked, but they stopped dreaming.

Jeeny:
(Quietly)
You stopped being the kid who built for himself.

Jack:
(Smiling faintly)
Yeah. I guess imagination doesn’t survive well in captivity.

Jeeny:
Maybe it doesn’t die, Jack. Maybe it just waits — like a child hiding under the bed, hoping you’ll remember to come back for it.

Host:
Her words hung in the air — soft, dangerous, true. Outside, the sound of rain began to patter faintly against the windows. It was a sound that didn’t interrupt — it accompanied.

Jack stared at the notebook before him, his pen trembling slightly as if unsure what language to speak anymore.

Jack:
You really think imagination’s a strength? Most people call it an escape.

Jeeny:
That’s because they mistake reality for truth. Imagination isn’t an escape, Jack — it’s a rehearsal for becoming.

Jack:
(Reclining slightly)
You always have a way of making the impractical sound sacred.

Jeeny:
Maybe it is sacred. Think about it — imagination built everything that exists. Every tool, every book, every song. It’s the closest thing we have to creation itself.

Jack:
(Quietly)
And yet we outgrow it like it’s a toy.

Jeeny:
Or worse — we trade it for approval.

Jack:
(Softly)
Yeah. Approval — the death of curiosity.

Host:
The rain deepened, tracing patterns on the glass. The sound of a distant page turning echoed somewhere behind them — small, eternal, like the heartbeat of thought itself.

Jeeny closed her sketchbook and leaned forward, her eyes luminous.

Jeeny:
You know what Corcoran was really saying, Jack? She wasn’t just talking about imagination. She was talking about space — the room to wonder, uninterrupted.

Jack:
(Skeptical)
And where do you find space like that now?

Jeeny:
You don’t find it. You make it. You carve it out of the noise. You guard it like oxygen.

Jack:
Easier said than done.

Jeeny:
Everything worth keeping is.

Jack:
(Smiling slightly)
So what — we quit our jobs, move to the woods, and think for seven hours a day?

Jeeny:
(Laughing softly)
No. You just start by giving yourself seven minutes — no goals, no outcome. Just wonder.

Jack:
And what am I supposed to wonder about?

Jeeny:
Anything that makes you feel alive. The impossible. The forgotten. The unrealized.

Host:
The rain fell harder now, drumming softly on the roof, turning the world outside into watercolor. Inside, time slowed even further — that strange suspension between doing and dreaming.

Jack’s gaze drifted to the shelves: titles about physics, philosophy, art. He looked back at his notebook, then finally picked up the pen.

Jack:
(Quietly)
What if I’ve forgotten how to imagine?

Jeeny:
Then start remembering.

Jack:
That simple?

Jeeny:
It always is. The complicated part is believing it’s allowed.

Jack:
(Smiling faintly)
You make it sound like faith.

Jeeny:
It is. Imagination is faith in disguise — faith that something more beautiful is possible, even if you can’t see it yet.

Jack:
(Whispering)
And faith’s dangerous.

Jeeny:
So is living without it.

Host:
The light faded from gold to blue as the rain’s rhythm slowed. The room felt smaller now, intimate, wrapped in the quiet pulse of rediscovery.

Jack lowered his eyes to the page and drew the first line. It wasn’t perfect, but it was alive — shaky, uneven, brave.

Jeeny:
(Watching him)
There. That’s it.

Jack:
What?

Jeeny:
That’s the sound of a child coming back.

Jack:
(Chuckling)
I thought it’d be louder.

Jeeny:
No. Real beginnings rarely make noise.

Host:
He looked up, meeting her eyes. The fire that had long gone cold inside him flickered, faint but unmistakable.

Jack:
Do you think we ever lose it completely?

Jeeny:
No. I think imagination waits like an old friend — patient, forgiving. You just have to make time to visit.

Jack:
And when life gets too crowded?

Jeeny:
Then you remember that every masterpiece began in someone’s stolen moment.

Host:
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Jack’s mouth — the kind that didn’t belong to cynicism anymore.

Jack:
You know, I think Corcoran was right. Maybe imagination is the only time in life when you’re truly free.

Jeeny:
(Smiling)
And freedom doesn’t vanish — it just hides behind what we call “responsibility.”

Jack:
(Scribbling another line)
Then maybe the real work is remembering that we were creators before we were workers.

Jeeny:
Exactly. Creation isn’t an escape from life. It’s how we survive it.

Host:
The rain eased to a drizzle. The sky outside softened to the gentle gray of evening. The two of them sat there in the glow of the library’s lamps — two souls rediscovering that to imagine is to live twice.

Host:
And as the final drop of rain slid down the window, they both understood what Barbara Corcoran had meant:

That imagination isn’t a childish pastime — it’s a refuge, a forge, a sacred kind of strength.
That the miracle of youth isn’t innocence — it’s space.
And that somewhere between the rush of necessity and the noise of adulthood,
every human heart still holds a quiet room where wonder waits to be invited home.

Host:
Jack closed his notebook.
Jeeny smiled, the kind of smile that always felt like sunrise.

The library exhaled around them,
and in the hush of pages and rain,
the world — just for a moment —
was new again.