There is no greatness where there is no simplicity, goodness and

Host: The winter evening lay over the city like a soft shroud — the kind that muffles sound, blurs light, and makes everything feel a little more distant, a little more holy. The café on the corner was nearly empty, its windows fogged with the gentle breath of warmth meeting cold. A single candle flickered at a corner table, its flame struggling against the faint draft.

Jack sat there, wrapped in his worn coat, his fingers tracing circles around a half-empty glass of whiskey. His eyes, pale grey and haunted, watched the flame dance as though it carried some secret he was trying to remember. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea, her movements slow, deliberate, almost ceremonial.

Outside, the snow fell like quiet forgiveness, cloaking the streets in white silence. Inside, the air was heavy with the unspoken — the kind of stillness that always comes before truth. Between them lay a page from a book, folded and slightly torn, bearing the words of Tolstoy:

“There is no greatness where there is no simplicity, goodness and truth.”
— Leo Tolstoy

Jack: (low voice) Simplicity. Goodness. Truth. Three words that sound like relics from a dead world.

Jeeny: (softly) Or maybe they’re the only things still alive in a world that’s forgotten them.

Host: Jack gave a dry laugh, more breath than sound, the kind that carries bitterness like smoke. The candlelight painted his face in uneven shadows, one half alive, the other lost in darkness.

Jack: You can’t survive on goodness anymore, Jeeny. Not in this world. Simplicity gets you crushed, and truth… (he smirks) truth just gets you crucified.

Jeeny: (gazes at him steadily) And yet, without them, what’s left? Greatness built on lies? On vanity? That’s not greatness, Jack — that’s theatre.

Jack: (sharply) Theatre’s all we’ve got. Everyone’s performing something — the good man, the righteous leader, the humble saint. The world runs on pretense.

Jeeny: (leans forward) Maybe. But don’t you think the act becomes the man eventually? Pretend long enough to be good, and maybe… you start to be.

Host: The wind whispered against the window, a soft lament. The flame bent, fluttered, then steadied again — a fragile persistence, much like her voice.

Jack: You really believe that? That purity survives in people?

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) I believe it tries to. Like the flame in front of you. It bends. It flickers. But it doesn’t go out.

Jack: (bitterly) Until someone opens the window.

Jeeny: (quietly) Then close the window, Jack. Protect what’s good instead of expecting it to survive the storm alone.

Host: Her words cut through the air with calm precision, slicing gently through his armor. Jack looked down, his hands tightening around the glass. He wanted to scoff — but something inside him trembled instead.

Jack: (slowly) You know, I used to believe in those things. Truth. Goodness. Thought they were absolutes. But the older I get, the more I realize — every truth is someone’s version, every goodness is someone’s agenda.

Jeeny: (softly, with sadness) That’s not truth you’re talking about. That’s politics. Truth doesn’t have a version. It’s simple, like snow — untouched until someone walks through it.

Jack: (eyes narrowing) And what if that untouched snow never existed? What if everything’s already been walked through before we even arrived?

Jeeny: Then greatness is trying to keep it clean again — for as long as you can.

Host: The silence that followed was heavy but alive, like a still lake hiding deep currents. Jack exhaled slowly, the smoke from his cigarette curling into thin, dying spirals. His voice softened — the sharpness fading into fatigue.

Jack: Simplicity. It sounds beautiful. But life isn’t simple. It’s messy, layered, contradictory. You simplify it, you strip it of meaning.

Jeeny: (gently) No, Jack. Simplicity doesn’t mean the absence of depth. It means the absence of deceit.

Host: The words lingered — clean, unadorned, and true. They struck him with the quiet force of something undeniable. He looked at her then, really looked — her small hands curled around the cup, her eyes warm and unwavering.

Jack: (whispers) You think truth makes people great?

Jeeny: (nods) I think it’s the only thing that ever has.

Jack: (a hint of irony) Tell that to history. The liars won most of the wars.

Jeeny: (with fire in her voice) But the truthful wrote the stories afterward. And those are the ones that lasted.

Host: Her words hit him like a quiet wave, submerging his cynicism for a moment. Outside, the snow thickened, erasing footprints from the sidewalks — as though the city itself longed for purity.

Jack: (slowly, thoughtfully) Maybe Tolstoy was right. Maybe greatness isn’t about power or genius, but… about being clean inside.

Jeeny: (smiles softly) That’s what simplicity is, Jack. Not a lack of complexity — just a lack of corruption.

Jack: (grimly) But to be uncorrupted in a corrupted world — isn’t that a kind of madness?

Jeeny: (leans closer, eyes shining) No. It’s a kind of courage. The rarest kind.

Host: The flame flickered again, caught by her reflection in the glass. It seemed to lean toward her voice, as if drawn by its warmth. Jack watched it, and for the first time in a long while, his shoulders dropped, the tension easing from his jaw.

Jack: (quietly) You make it sound so easy — to be good, to be true. But it isn’t. It costs.

Jeeny: (whispers) Everything worth being always does.

Host: The clock ticked, steady and indifferent, as if time itself were listening. Outside, the snowfall slowed, and a faint silver light crept through the fogged glass.

Jack: (after a pause) Maybe that’s the irony. We chase greatness like it’s something to be achieved. But maybe it’s just something to be remembered for — simplicity, goodness, truth — the things we forgot while we were busy being extraordinary.

Jeeny: (nods gently) Greatness doesn’t need to be extraordinary. It just needs to be honest.

Jack: (sighs) Honest. That word feels like a ghost these days.

Jeeny: (soft smile) Then let’s haunt the world with it until it learns to see again.

Host: The flame steadied — no longer flickering, but still. Jeeny’s eyes shone like mirrors of that light, unwavering. Jack looked at her, and a faint smile broke through the tired lines of his face — not joy, but recognition.

Jack: (quietly) You win this one, Jeeny.

Jeeny: (shakes her head) It’s not a win, Jack. It’s a reminder. Even the greatest fall when they forget to be simple, to be good, to be true.

Host: Outside, the first star emerged, pale and trembling, above the silent city. The world had gone still — as if listening to its own heartbeat.

Host: Jack leaned back, finishing his drink. Jeeny closed her eyes for a moment, her breath calm, her presence luminous in the soft glow of the dying candle.

Host: In that small room, amid the silence and snow, the truth of Tolstoy’s words hung like a gentle benediction — that greatness, real greatness, is not loud. It is not vast. It is quiet, honest, and pure.

Host: The candle flickered once more, then steadied — a single, unwavering flame in a world too often afraid of its own simplicity.