One my favorite things is to go to the provinces of Russia and

Host: The train wound its way through the frosted countryside, cutting a silver line through an ocean of snow and silence. Outside, the sky hung low and pale, the color of old porcelain, and distant villages appeared and disappeared like breath on glass.

Inside the compartment, warmth hummed — the low growl of the heater, the clinking of cups, the faint murmur of travelers speaking softly in Russian. Jack sat by the window, grey eyes fixed on the passing horizon. He wore a heavy coat, but still looked like someone more accustomed to city air than country cold.

Across from him, Jeeny sat wrapped in a scarf that looked almost alive with color — a small rebellion against the winter’s grey. Her brown eyes followed the landscape too, but her face carried something softer — reverence.

Outside, the first church spire appeared on the horizon — a small wooden structure, its onion domes dark against the snow, shimmering faintly in the low sun.

Jeeny leaned forward, pointing toward it.

Jeeny: “There. That’s one of them.”

Jack: “One of what?”

Jeeny: “The wooden churches. From the 18th century. Look at it — no steel, no marble, no vanity. Just vision and wood.”

Jack: “Looks fragile.”

Jeeny: “It’s survived three centuries of frost. That’s not fragility — that’s faith made visible.”

Host: The train curved, giving them a better view. The church stood in a clearing, its domes shaped like teardrops, carved with delicate patterns that caught the light. Smoke rose from a nearby cottage, thin and blue against the white world.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve seen it before.”

Jeeny: “I have. I came here once in my twenties. I thought I’d find grandeur in Paris or Rome — but I found grace here instead.”

Jack: “Grace in decay?”

Jeeny: “No. Grace in humility.”

Host: Her words settled between them like snow — light, quiet, unarguable. The train moved on, leaving the church smaller in the distance, but its image lingered — like something half-remembered from a dream.

Jeeny: “You know what Andre Leon Talley said once?”

Jack: “The fashion editor?”

Jeeny: “Yes. He said, ‘One of my favorite things is to go to the provinces of Russia and see the 18th-century wood churches with the onion dome architecture. These humble wonders of incredible imagination of architects that were obviously not living in places like Paris or London, but they’ve created these amazing churches.’”

Jack: “He found beauty in poverty.”

Jeeny: “No. He found imagination in limitation.”

Jack: “You think there’s a difference?”

Jeeny: “All the difference. Poverty confines, but imagination defies confinement. Those architects weren’t wealthy or educated in elite academies. But they built cathedrals with their hearts instead of blueprints.”

Jack: “And yet, nobody remembers their names.”

Jeeny: “They didn’t build to be remembered. They built so something divine could stand where the world forgot to look.”

Host: The train slowed as it entered a small station — wooden signs, icicles clinging to the roof, a single dog crossing the platform with the indifference of time. The wind outside howled faintly, pressing against the windows.

Jack: “You make it sound romantic.”

Jeeny: “It is romantic. Not in the foolish way — in the sacred way. There’s a kind of love in creating beauty that will outlast you.”

Jack: “But isn’t that delusion? Building for a God who may not listen, for people who may never come?”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s faith — in the act itself. The creation is the prayer.”

Jack: “You talk like an artist.”

Jeeny: “I talk like someone who believes that art and devotion are the same muscle. One reaches toward God, the other toward meaning.”

Host: Jack looked back out the window. Another church appeared — smaller, its wood darkened by time, its onion domes glistening faintly with frost. It looked impossibly human, yet otherworldly — both fragile and eternal.

Jack: “You think Talley was right — that imagination lives stronger outside privilege?”

Jeeny: “Absolutely. Comfort dulls wonder. Those architects didn’t have marble, but they had sky. They didn’t have patrons, but they had purpose. And that’s enough to create eternity.”

Jack: “So beauty doesn’t come from abundance.”

Jeeny: “No. It comes from longing.”

Host: The heater clicked, the rhythm of the wheels on the tracks filling the silence. Jeeny took a sip of tea from a small metal cup, the steam curling upward like a whisper.

Jeeny: “You know, it’s ironic. The most intricate architecture — in Paris, in London — was made to impress kings. But these little churches? They were built to impress the sky.”

Jack: “And maybe they did.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they still do.”

Host: A moment passed — quiet, reverent, fragile. The train rocked gently as it moved through another stretch of forest. The trees were skeletal, but their branches held snow like offerings.

Jack: “You ever wonder what kind of person builds something beautiful knowing no one important will ever see it?”

Jeeny: “Someone free.”

Jack: “Free from what?”

Jeeny: “From needing applause. From needing proof. From needing Paris or London to tell them they’ve mattered.”

Jack: “You really think art can exist without recognition?”

Jeeny: “It must. Otherwise, it’s marketing.”

Host: The train whistle blew — long, low, mournful. The sound rolled over the frozen fields like a prayer said by the machine itself.

Jack: “You know, I used to think imagination was a luxury — something for people who had time to dream. But maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe it’s the only thing that keeps you human when everything else is survival.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what those churches prove. Imagination isn’t decoration. It’s resistance.”

Jack: “Against what?”

Jeeny: “Against despair.”

Host: She turned toward the window again, the reflection of her face layered over the snow, the domes, the fading world outside. For a moment, she looked like she belonged to both times — the present and the past — a living echo of the same defiance that had driven men to carve miracles out of wood.

Jeeny: “You know what’s truly astonishing, Jack? Those architects built with what they had — timber, frost, their hands. And yet, their work feels lighter than stone, more enduring than gold. Because humility doesn’t rot.”

Jack: “And arrogance does.”

Jeeny: “Every time.”

Host: The train began to slow, pulling into a village where the spires rose like frozen music against the horizon. The passengers began to stir — gathering coats, closing books, preparing to step out into the cold.

Jeeny stood first, wrapping her scarf tighter, eyes still fixed on the domes outside.

Jeeny: “Maybe Talley saw what most people miss — that genius isn’t confined to cities or cathedrals. Sometimes it hides in small towns, in hands that never learned the word ‘genius’ but lived it anyway.”

Jack: “And that’s why he loved them — because they made beauty feel democratic.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because imagination doesn’t belong to the elite. It belongs to whoever dares to dream without permission.”

Host: The doors opened, releasing a burst of cold air and snowflakes that swirled like confetti for no audience at all.

Jack followed Jeeny off the train. They stepped onto the wooden platform, their boots crunching softly. Before them, the small wooden church stood — its domes glinting like fireflies in the dusk.

They both stood still for a long moment, the cold forgotten.

Jeeny: “You see? No marble. No gold. Just heart.”

Jack: “And that’s enough to astonish even Paris.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the faint echo of bells — distant, haunting, perfectly imperfect.

And in that frozen air, standing before a structure built by unknown hands and undying hope, Jack and Jeeny understood what Andre Leon Talley had seen:

That humility births wonder,
that limitation births imagination,
and that art — real art —
does not need to be admired by the world to touch heaven.

For the architects who built those churches didn’t craft monuments for men —
they carved faith into wood,
and eternity into silence.