Stevie Wonder is just one of those guys that completely delivers

Host: The studio lights were dim, the room bathed in a warm amber glow. A vinyl record spun on the turntable, its needle crackling softly as Stevie Wonder’s “As” floated through the air — a melody of faith, forgiveness, and forever love. The sound was alive, as if the walls themselves were breathing with the music.

Jack sat by the window, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers, smoke curling toward the ceiling. His reflection in the glass was half-lit, half-shadowed — like a man divided between cynicism and memory.

Jeeny lay on the couch, her head resting on her arm, her eyes closed but her lips murmuring softly along with the song. Her voice was barely audible, but it carried that same gentle defiance — the belief that the world, in all its cruelty, could still be beautiful if you listened hard enough.

Jeeny: “You ever listen to him and just... believe again? Like for a few minutes, all the noise, all the ugliness, just melts away?”

Jack: “Believe in what, Jeeny? Magic? Goodness? Happy endings? Those are lyrics, not laws of nature.”

Host: The record crackled, a small pop in the music, like the heartbeat of time itself. Outside, the rain drizzled, sliding down the windowpane in slow rivers. Inside, the air was thick with smoke, song, and the faint smell of coffee going cold.

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. There are people who embody what they sing. Stevie Wonder’s one of them. He’s not a myth. He’s what you hope the world could be — and then he shows you it’s real.”

Jack: “He’s blind, Jeeny, not divine. He sings about love because he has to. Because that’s how you survive a world that doesn’t see you. You turn your pain into music. It’s alchemy, not miracle.”

Jeeny: “You call it alchemy like it’s lesser, but that’s what makes it sacred. He took a life that could have been dark and filled it with light. How’s that not miraculous?”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming against the glass in a steady rhythm, blending with the bass line of the song. The room vibrated with an energy both melancholic and hopeful, like a church without walls.

Jack: “You know what I think? People need their heroes too much. They build them up so they can believe in their own fairytales. And when those heroes fall, they crash the whole illusion. You remember John Lennon? They called him a saint, and then we learned he was just as flawed as the rest of us.”

Jeeny: “Stevie’s not about being perfect, Jack. He’s about being real — and good anyway. There’s a difference. The fairytale isn’t that he’s flawless, it’s that he’s faithful — to joy, to music, to the idea that the world can still sing back.”

Jack: “And you really think one man’s kindness can redeem the rest of us?”

Jeeny: “Not redeem. But remind. Remind us what we lose when we stop believing.”

Host: The needle slid across the groove, catching on a lyric — “Until the rainbow burns the stars out in the sky…” — and Jeeny’s eyes opened. The line hung in the room, vibrant and infinite, like a prayer disguised as a melody.

Jack exhaled, the smoke curling like a question mark above his head.

Jack: “You know, it’s funny. The world’s full of noise — politics, outrage, scrolling screens — and yet a blind musician from Detroit can still make more sense than the rest of us.”

Jeeny: “Because he listens. Not just to sound, but to truth. There’s a difference between hearing and understanding. Stevie understands. He hears what the heart hides.”

Jack: “You make it sound like he’s a prophet.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he is. Every era has a few — not the ones who preach, but the ones who sing. Bob Marley, Aretha, Nina Simone — they didn’t write policies, they wrote feelings. And sometimes that changes more.”

Host: The lamp on the side table flickered, its light casting shadows across the posters on the wall — Miles Davis, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, each one staring out like guardians of a better time.

Jack: “You know, I once saw Stevie in concert — twenty years ago, Chicago. I was nineteen. Didn’t even want to go; my girlfriend dragged me. But when he started playing ‘Superstition’, the whole crowd just... moved. Every race, every age, all singing the same lines. It was like... a temporary truce.”

Jeeny: “That’s it. That’s the fairytale. Not unreal — just rare. For those moments, we’re not divided, we’re united by sound. That’s what Adam Levine meant — Stevie delivers the world we wish existed, and he makes it real, if only for a song’s length.”

Jack: “So the fairytale exists, but only in three minutes and forty seconds?”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s all it needs. Some truths are too bright to stay. They visit you, and then they leave — but you’re different afterward.”

Host: Jeeny sat up, her eyes gleaming in the low light, reflected in the window beside Jack. The rain softened, turning to a mist, whispering against the glass like a memory.

Jack: “You ever think it’s crazy, that a man who’s never seen the sunrise can make you feel it?”

Jeeny: “That’s not crazy. That’s grace. He can’t see it — but he can hear it, feel it, and translate it for the rest of us. Maybe that’s what art really is — faith translated into sound.”

Jack: “Faith. You and that word again.”

Jeeny: “You say it like it’s a disease. But it’s not. It’s the thing that keeps us from turning into machines. Stevie’s songs are faith in motion — faith in love, in forgiveness, in joy. Even when the world’s blind, he sees for it.”

Host: The record slowed, the needle lifting, leaving a soft hush behind — a silence so full it felt like a presence. The rain had stopped. Outside, the city lights gleamed, reflected in the wet pavement like fallen stars.

Jack stubbed out his cigarette, leaned back, and smiled faintly — a rare, unguarded smile.

Jack: “You know what, Jeeny? Maybe you’re right. Maybe the fairytale does exist. Not in happily ever after, but in the people who prove that it’s still possible. Maybe Stevie’s one of those proofs.”

Jeeny: “He is. Because he lives the music he makes. And because he reminds us that joy isn’t naïve — it’s courageous.”

Jack: “Courageous... yeah. To keep believing, even when the world keeps disappointing you.”

Jeeny: “To keep singing, even when you can’t see the stage.”

Host: The two sat there, bathed in the afterglow of music and memory. The turntable spun idly, silent now, but the echo of “As” still lingered — that promise of love’s eternity, of light outlasting darkness.

The camera would have pulled back then — rising above the room, the city, the rain-slicked streets, the soundless beauty of a world still humming with a song only a few can hear.

And as the screen faded to black, one last note would remain, soft, pure, unwavering —
the note of a fairytale that, for a moment, really existed.