My heart is like a singing bird.

Host: The morning unfurled slowly, spilling golden light across the park where the dew still clung to the grass like tiny shards of glass. Birdsong drifted through the air, faint but alive — a thread of sound weaving through the silence of a waking world. The sky, pale and tender, carried a soft blush of dawn.

On a bench under a jacaranda tree, Jack sat with a newspaper folded on his lap. His coat hung loosely, and his eyes, grey and distant, followed the motion of a small bird hopping along the edge of the path.

Jeeny approached from the path, carrying two cups of coffee. Her hair, unbound, caught the morning breeze and shimmered in the sunlight. She smiled as she sat beside him.

Jeeny: “You know, Rossetti once wrote, ‘My heart is like a singing bird.’”

Host: Jack looked up, squinting slightly against the light, his expression unreadable.

Jack: “That sounds… unnecessarily optimistic for this early in the morning.”

Jeeny: (laughing) “Maybe. Or maybe it’s what mornings are for — singing hearts and fresh starts.”

Host: The wind stirred the leaves, and a few petals drifted down, landing softly on Jeeny’s coffee cup. She brushed them away gently, her eyes following the same small bird that had caught Jack’s attention.

Jack: “A singing heart — sounds like something people say before life breaks it. You ever noticed that? The most cheerful words are usually written by people who’ve known sorrow too well.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s why they sing. Because they’ve learned the cost of silence.”

Host: The sunlight broke through the branches, scattering bright patches across the bench, the grass, their faces. Jack turned slightly toward her, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth.

Jack: “So what? You think happiness is just the echo of pain?”

Jeeny: “Not the echo. The answer.”

Jack: “Hmm. You sound like you swallowed a poetry book.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Better that than the morning headlines.”

Host: Jack unfolded the newspaper, scanned a few lines, then folded it again with a sigh. The world, printed in black and white, felt distant from the soft hues of the morning.

Jack: “So tell me, Jeeny — what does a ‘singing bird heart’ even mean? Some kind of metaphor for love?”

Jeeny: “Not just love. It’s life — the joy that rises without permission. The way a bird sings even when no one’s listening. That’s what Rossetti meant. A heart that sings for its own sake.”

Jack: “That sounds… naive. The world doesn’t reward joy for joy’s sake. Try singing in a boardroom and see how far that gets you.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But even boardrooms have windows. The bird doesn’t need permission to sing.”

Host: A moment passed, soft and still. The bird on the path tilted its head, then lifted off into the air, a flicker of color and motion against the sky.

Jack: “You know, I used to think like that — back when I was younger. Thought I’d change the world. Thought my heart could sing through anything.”

Jeeny: “What changed?”

Jack: “The world sang back — out of tune.”

Host: The smile that followed his words was small and tired, but there was warmth beneath it — the kind that comes from remembering something once precious. Jeeny’s eyes softened.

Jeeny: “You’re still listening, though. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have noticed that bird.”

Jack: “Maybe I’m just jealous of it.”

Jeeny: “Jealous?”

Jack: “It sings without reason. It doesn’t need a plan, or money, or validation. It just sings. I can’t remember the last time I did anything without a reason.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time you did.”

Host: Her voice carried a quiet challenge, light but certain. Jack looked at her, then back at the bird, which had perched on a nearby branch. Its chest puffed slightly, its song trembling through the air again — clear, unashamed, alive.

Jack: “You really think that kind of innocence can survive this world?”

Jeeny: “It’s not innocence, Jack. It’s defiance. Every time the world turns cruel, the heart has to sing louder to remind itself it’s still human.”

Jack: “Defiance… I like that.”

Jeeny: “Of course you do. It makes poetry sound like rebellion.”

Host: They both laughed — softly, easily, as the morning deepened. The sun was climbing higher now, the light turning warmer, spreading like spilled honey over the trees and benches.

Jack: “You know, Rossetti’s bird might’ve had it easier. No taxes, no heartbreak, no noise. Just open skies.”

Jeeny: “And yet, even with all that freedom, it still comes back to the same branch every morning. Maybe happiness isn’t about flying far — maybe it’s about finding your perch and singing anyway.”

Host: Jack leaned back, the lines on his face softening as he absorbed her words. A long moment passed before he spoke again, his voice quieter now.

Jack: “When I was twelve, my mother used to play the piano every morning. Same song, over and over — some old love tune. I used to get annoyed, thought she was being sentimental. But after she died, I realized… she wasn’t playing for anyone else. She was just… keeping her heart alive.”

Jeeny: “That’s it, Jack. That’s the singing bird. It’s what keeps the heart from going silent.”

Host: The wind carried the last notes of birdsong across the park, mingling with distant laughter, the rustle of leaves, the faint rhythm of footsteps. Jack closed his eyes for a moment, as if listening — not to the world, but to something within himself.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve been quiet too long.”

Jeeny: “Then start softly. You don’t have to roar — just hum.”

Host: He smiled, a real one this time — small but unguarded. He lifted his coffee, took a slow sip, and exhaled. The sound was almost like relief.

Jack: “You ever notice how birds never check if they’re being heard?”

Jeeny: “They don’t sing to be heard, Jack. They sing because they exist.”

Host: The camera lingers — the park bathed in gold, the bird still perched above, the two figures framed against the morning. Jeeny’s sketchbook lies open beside her, a small drawing of a bird in mid-flight, unfinished but full of motion.

Jack looks at it and laughs softly.

Jack: “You didn’t draw the cage.”

Jeeny: “There isn’t one.”

Host: The scene slows — a long, lingering moment of quiet warmth. The wind stirs the pages of her sketchbook, and for a heartbeat, the world feels lighter, freer.

Jack: (softly) “My heart is like a singing bird… maybe for the first time in a long while.”

Jeeny: “Then let it sing, Jack. Before the day forgets to listen.”

Host: The camera pans upward — past the bench, past the trees, past the sky streaked with pale light — and finds the small bird soaring, its song fading into the open morning.

And for once, both Jack and Jeeny sit in the stillness not as cynic and dreamer, but simply as two souls who remember — if only for a moment — that joy needs no reason to exist.