Tarot cards likely originated in northern Italy during the late

Host: The night hung heavy over Milan, a city still breathing echoes of its past. In the corner of an old wine bar, under a dim chandelier, the walls wore the shadows of frescoes long faded by time. The air smelled faintly of oak, ink, and the ghostly perfume of forgotten nobility.

Jack sat by the window, a deck of Tarot cards spread before him, their edges frayed, their images blurred like memories. Jeeny sat opposite, her hands folded, eyes watching him with both curiosity and tenderness.

The rain drummed softly against the glass, like a metronome counting centuries.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… those cards once belonged to nobles, not mystics. The Visconti-Sforza family—dukes, lovers of art, not prophets. Isn’t it strange how what began as a game for the idle rich became a mirror for the human soul?”

Jack: “Strange? No. Predictable.” He smirked, turning over a card—the Fool. “People have always turned entertainment into faith when they’re bored enough. These weren’t windows to fate, Jeeny. They were just painted slips of paper for people who had too much wine and too little purpose.”

Host: The candlelight flickered against his face, revealing the sharp lines of skepticism carved deep into his expression.

Jeeny: “But look at what they became. Symbols of the unknown. Of hope, destiny, intuition. You can call them superstition, but people saw themselves reflected in those cards—in the Fool, the Lovers, the Tower. Isn’t that what all art does? It helps us find meaning, even if that meaning is made up.”

Jack: “Ah, the romantic defense of illusion. Tell me, Jeeny—if meaning can be fabricated, does it still hold any truth? Or is it just another pretty lie we tell ourselves so we can sleep at night?”

Host: Her fingers reached for the Death card, tracing its silver outline as if feeling the pulse beneath the ink.

Jeeny: “Maybe truth isn’t what matters, Jack. Maybe it’s the transformation that matters. The Viscontis wanted beauty, so they made it. Later, people wanted guidance, so they found it in those same images. The purpose of a thing can evolve. Just like we do.”

Jack: “Evolve?” He laughed softly, but there was no joy in it. “No. It’s degeneration dressed up as spirituality. Look around. We’ve traded reason for rituals. Every century finds a new way to fool itself. First it was the Church, then the Kings, now it’s Tarot readers and self-help gurus.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, its rhythm turning the windowpane into a trembling mirror.

Jeeny: “And yet, every age still hungers for meaning. Even you, Jack. You think you’re above it, but you’re still here—touching the cards, asking questions you don’t admit you’re asking.”

Jack: He stared at the deck, silent for a moment. “Maybe I just like their history. They’re proof of how easily we mistake decorations for depth. You can gild a game, Jeeny, but it’s still a game.”

Jeeny: “And what if life itself is the game? What if that’s the point of it all—to play, to imagine, to find patterns where none exist, because that’s how we feel alive?”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing chaos. The universe doesn’t deal cards, Jeeny. It doesn’t whisper meanings into them. It’s indifferent.”

Jeeny: “Indifferent, maybe. But not silent. Every symbol we create is a response—a way to speak back to the void. The Tarot wasn’t about predicting the future; it was about trying to understand the present.”

Host: Her voice trembled like a candle flame caught in a draft. For a brief moment, Jack’s eyes softened, but the storm in his mind did not relent.

Jack: “You sound like you believe the universe listens.”

Jeeny: “I believe we listen. That’s enough. The act of listening shapes the world.”

Host: A pause filled the room—the kind that stretches beyond words, where the soul tries to catch its breath.

Jeeny: “You know, in 1440, when the Duke of Milan commissioned the Visconti-Sforza deck, he wasn’t thinking about destiny. He just wanted a beautiful diversion. But that’s the beauty of creation—its purpose doesn’t end where it begins. Centuries later, a lonely woman in New York shuffles the same archetypes to find out if she’ll be loved. A man on a rainy night uses them to think about the choices he didn’t make. We make art, Jack, and art remakes us.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, Jeeny. But it’s sentimentality hiding under history. We don’t find ourselves in art—we project ourselves onto it. Tarot isn’t a mirror of the soul. It’s a mirror of the mind’s confusion.”

Jeeny: “Confusion is still human. Maybe that’s the whole point.”

Host: The thunder rolled faintly over the city, echoing down the alleyways like a memory of ancient wars.

Jack: “You talk about purpose, but history is littered with the wreckage of people who believed too hard in symbols. The Crusaders, the Nazis, even modern cults—they all thought they’d found divine patterns in chaos. That’s what happens when you mistake metaphor for truth.”

Jeeny: “And yet, without those metaphors, would we even know how to dream? The same symbols that can enslave us can also save us. It’s how we use them that matters. You can burn a city with fire, Jack—or you can cook bread.”

Host: His jaw tightened, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of recognition, as if her words had cracked something within.

Jack: “So you’re saying the lie has value?”

Jeeny: “If the lie helps us live, yes. The Viscontis didn’t know they were birthing a tool for self-reflection. But maybe that’s what every human creation is—a doorway we build without knowing what lies beyond.”

Jack: “Or a trap we keep falling into.”

Jeeny: “A trap that teaches us who we are each time we climb out.”

Host: The silence that followed was thick, electric. The rain outside had slowed to a soft drizzle, like the world itself had leaned closer to listen.

Jeeny: “Tell me, Jack… when you turn a card—say, the Lovers—do you feel nothing at all? Not even a flicker of recognition, of something universal?”

Jack: “I feel the artist’s hand. The brushstroke. The craft. But not magic.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the craft is the magic. Isn’t it strange that something so old still moves us? These images outlived their makers. That’s not illusion—that’s legacy.”

Jack: “Legacy is just what survives by accident, Jeeny. Not because it means something, but because it didn’t get burned or forgotten.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it survived because it needed to.”

Host: The clock ticked once, loud enough to startle the silence.

Jack: “You sound like you believe destiny picked its favorites.”

Jeeny: “Not destiny—humanity. We choose what to keep. We’re the ones who breathe meaning into relics. Every card in this deck is a heartbeat from someone who refused to let the void have the last word.”

Jack: He looked down again, slowly flipping over the last card—the Star. “Hope. That’s what this one’s called, isn’t it?”

Jeeny: “Yes.”

Jack: “Funny. You talk about meaning, and I see just a drawing. But maybe… maybe the drawing is enough.”

Host: The rain had stopped. The streets outside glistened like veins of silver, and a faint moonlight spilled through the window, settling on the cards like a quiet blessing.

Jeeny: “That’s all any of us really have, Jack. Symbols, drawings, stories—ways to remind ourselves that even in randomness, there can be beauty. That we are still trying.”

Jack: “Trying to understand?”

Jeeny: “Trying to feel.”

Host: For a moment, neither spoke. Jack reached out, gathered the cards, and placed them back into their worn box. The gesture was slow, almost reverent.

Jack: “You win tonight, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about winning.”

Jack: “Maybe not. But I think I’ll keep the deck.”

Host: The light dimmed as the bar emptied. Somewhere outside, a lone violinist played a slow melody under the arcades of Milan, the notes weaving through the air like threads of memory.

The camera lingered on the table—on the closed box of Tarot cards, now resting between two empty glasses.

And in that fragile silence, the ancient game—born of nobility, turned into faith, reborn as metaphor—seemed to breathe again.

The past and present, the rational and the mystical, the skeptic and the believer—all folded quietly into the same deck.

The Fool, once again, ready to begin his journey.