Some people think that the truth can be hidden with a little

Host: The night was quiet, but not peaceful — the kind of quiet that hides truths too heavy to speak aloud. The air smelled faintly of smoke and sea salt, the remnants of a city that had burned long ago and still pretended it hadn’t. A single streetlamp flickered beside an abandoned café, its sign half-broken, its windows coated with dust and memory.

Inside, the walls were cracked, the floor scarred, and in the corner booth, two souls sat beneath the faint hum of a dying bulb — Jack and Jeeny. The world outside was a mirror of what they felt inside: fractured, fading, but still holding on to its own reflection.

Host: The quote came like a whisper through the static of a radio — the voice foreign, but the truth familiar:
“Some people think that the truth can be hidden with a little cover-up and decoration. But as time goes by, what is true is revealed, and what is fake fades away.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Ismail Haniyeh said that. You can almost feel the exhaustion in it — not anger, just… endurance. Like truth doesn’t fight back, it just waits.”

Jack: (gruffly) “Truth doesn’t wait, Jeeny. It erodes. It gets buried under repetition, propaganda, revision. People don’t want truth — they want decoration, as he said. They want something that flatters them.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the illusion he’s warning against — the idea that you can bury truth under comfort. You can’t. Time always exhumes it.”

Jack: (smirking) “Time doesn’t care enough to dig. It’s people who dig, and most of them stop when the dirt looks too much like a mirror.”

Host: Jeeny’s fingers traced the rim of her cup, steam rising like ghosts of unspoken words. The café light flickered, and for a moment, their faces appeared like two versions of the same soul — one weathered by disbelief, the other fueled by hope.

Jeeny: “You really think truth fades?”

Jack: “Everything fades. Truth just takes longer.”

Jeeny: “But the fake — the lies, the propaganda, the masks — they vanish faster. You can feel it, can’t you? When someone’s hiding something, even if you can’t prove it. Lies have a texture — smooth, shiny, but hollow. Truth’s rough. It cuts.”

Jack: “You romanticize truth like it’s noble. Most truth is just ugly — the kind that leaves you wishing for a good lie.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Maybe that’s why it’s beautiful. Because it doesn’t care about being liked. It just is.”

Host: The rain began to fall, lightly, rhythmic, a soft percussion on the roof. It sounded almost like time breathing — slow, certain, inevitable.

Jack: (looking toward the window) “You ever think about how much of history is just a cover-up with better branding?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Every empire paints its crimes as victories. Every leader calls their sins strategy. Every generation inherits lies wrapped in flags.”

Jack: “And you think time will fix that?”

Jeeny: “No. But it reveals it. Slowly, painfully. Like a wound that refuses to close until it’s been cleaned.”

Host: A truck passed outside, its headlights sliding across the walls, casting their shadows against the cracks — two figures caught between light and fracture.

Jack: “Truth doesn’t heal. It just reminds you where it hurts.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s healing, Jack. To stop pretending the wound was never there.”

Jack: “You sound like you believe people actually want that kind of honesty.”

Jeeny: “Not at first. But truth has patience. It doesn’t need to convince — it just needs to outlive the lie.”

Jack: “And sometimes the lie lives longer. Look at the world — we still glorify men who built their thrones on bones.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Yes. But even their statues crumble.”

Host: Jack looked at her for a long moment, the cigarette between his fingers slowly burning down, the ash long, fragile, like a line of time itself about to collapse.

Jack: “You think that’s justice?”

Jeeny: “No. Truth isn’t justice. It’s revelation. Justice is what you do after you finally see it.”

Host: The light flickered, buzzed, and for an instant, the room was dark — the kind of dark that holds its breath. When the light returned, Jeeny’s expression had changed. Her eyes were wet, but steady.

Jeeny: “You know what I think the real tragedy is? It’s not that people hide the truth. It’s that they forget they ever knew it.”

Jack: “Forgetting’s mercy.”

Jeeny: “No. Forgetting’s the second crime.”

Jack: (quietly) “And remembering’s a punishment.”

Host: Their voices fell, softened into something almost tender — not forgiveness, not surrender, but the shared exhaustion of two people who had lived too long in the gray space between what’s true and what’s tolerable.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack — the truth doesn’t always come like thunder. Sometimes it’s a whisper, a rust stain that refuses to disappear. People repaint the wall a hundred times, but the color always bleeds through.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “And that’s what scares them. The thought that time has a memory.”

Jeeny: “It does. And it’s unforgiving.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, rattling the windows, washing dust from the glass. The city lights outside blurred into shimmering streaks, like tears on a mirror.

Jack: “So what happens when the truth finally comes out? You think the world listens?”

Jeeny: “Not at first. Truth doesn’t shout. It haunts. It lingers in silence until even the deaf can feel it.”

Jack: “And what if the lie still wins?”

Jeeny: (after a long pause) “Then at least the truth dies honest.”

Host: The light above them finally gave out, leaving only the fire of their cigarettes — two faint, glowing embers, two hearts in a world that preferred shadows.

Jeeny stood, pulling her coat tighter, the rain outside calling her name.

Jeeny: “You can hide it, Jack. You can bury it, paint over it, even rewrite it. But truth has a strange habit of surviving its murderers.”

Jack: (quietly) “And lies have a way of being reborn.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But they never age well.”

Host: She walked out into the rain, her silhouette swallowed by the night, leaving Jack alone with the smoke and the echo of her words.

He watched the window, where the rain cleaned the dust, revealing the faded logo of the café beneath it — an old name, long forgotten, but still there.

Host: And in that moment, the message of the night became clear — truth doesn’t need to be defended; it only needs to endure. Because while time kills everything false, it always finds a way to keep the honest things breathing.

The rain fell on, steady, merciless, cleansing, revealing.