There is no history of mankind, there are only many histories of

Host: The city was asleep beneath a curtain of fog, its lights flickering like tired stars caught in concrete clouds. From the top floor of an old university building, the view stretched far into the dark, over rooftops wet with rain, past the silent spires that once marked the edge of civilization.

Inside, the room was a relic of intellect — maps pinned to walls, papers scattered like fallen leaves, and in the middle, a long table cluttered with books, half-empty coffee cups, and the quiet hum of debate waiting to be born.

Jack sat at one end, his coat still damp, his grey eyes reflecting the dim lamplight. Jeeny leaned against the window, her hair loose, her expression thoughtful, half lost in the rain-streaked reflection of the city below.

On the table lay a note, written in careful ink:
“There is no history of mankind, there are only many histories of all kinds of aspects of human life. And one of these is the history of political power. This is elevated into the history of the world.” — Karl Popper.

Jeeny: “Popper was right, wasn’t he? We talk about history as if it’s a single, sacred story — but it’s not. It’s a mosaic of smaller ones, all overlapping, contradicting, forgotten, rediscovered. And yet, somehow, we still let power claim to speak for them all.”

Jack: “That’s because power writes the only version that survives. The rest — the small, private histories — they dissolve. History is what remains after silence has done its work.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the window, scattering a few loose pages across the floor. Jeeny bent to gather them, her hands trembling just enough to betray her emotion. Jack watched her — his face unreadable, his posture that of a man used to being disappointed by the world.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve stopped believing in meaning altogether.”

Jack: “Meaning isn’t the problem. Ownership is. Every generation rewrites the story in its own image. We call it progress, but it’s just another hierarchy — the victors replacing one myth with another.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what makes history alive? It changes because we do. Maybe that’s not corruption, Jack — maybe that’s evolution.”

Jack: “Evolution implies improvement. But tell me, Jeeny — do you really think we’ve improved? Look around. The same wars, the same lies, the same stage. The only thing that changes are the costumes.”

Host: Her eyes lifted toward him — deep, brown, and shining in the flickering light. For a moment, she didn’t answer. She just studied his face, as if searching for the wound behind the cynicism.

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re right. But if there’s no single history — if there are only histories — then every small story still matters. The world isn’t made by kings alone. It’s made by the ones no one wrote about.”

Jack: “And how do you write a history of what’s forgotten?”

Jeeny: “You remember. You listen. You preserve the ordinary.”

Host: Jack laughed softly — not cruelly, but like someone remembering an old song that used to mean something. He picked up a book — its cover cracked, its pages stained — and set it between them.

Jack: “Do you know how many times this book has been rewritten? The History of Civilization. A title so arrogant it could choke on itself. It’s not civilization they record — it’s conquest. The only ‘history of the world’ we’ve ever written is the history of those who could afford ink.”

Jeeny: “And yet you still read it.”

Jack: “To understand the disease.”

Jeeny: “And maybe to find the cure.”

Host: The lamp above them flickered once, briefly dimming the room, as if the light itself had paused to listen.

Jeeny walked toward the bookshelves, her fingers tracing the spines of countless forgotten works. Her voice came softly, like the whisper of an idea finding its shape.

Jeeny: “Maybe what Popper meant was that we need to stop worshipping history as if it were a god. There is no grand narrative, Jack — just fragments. And it’s arrogance to call one fragment the story of the world.”

Jack: “Then what do we do with the fragments? Frame them? Pretend they fit together?”

Jeeny: “No. We accept the gaps. We let them speak for what we don’t understand.”

Host: The rain outside had softened now — a faint, rhythmic tapping that filled the spaces between their words. Jack leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his tone low, almost confessional.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But those gaps — they’re dangerous. In the wrong hands, they’re filled with lies. Whole nations are built on the comfort of false memory.”

Jeeny: “True. But the answer isn’t silence. It’s more voices. More stories. Let power write its version — fine. The rest of us will write our own.”

Jack: “And who will read them?”

Jeeny: “Someone will. Someone always does.”

Host: She turned back toward the window, watching the fog drift between the buildings like a living thing. Her reflection merged with the night outside, becoming part of it — one more invisible story in a world of millions.

Jack: “You talk like history’s a democracy. It’s not. It’s a battlefield. One narrative wins; the others die.”

Jeeny: “Then we keep resurrecting the dead ones.”

Jack: “You can’t resurrect what was never born.”

Jeeny: “You can give it a name.”

Host: The silence that followed was long and thick — not empty, but full of weight, like the pause between two movements of a symphony. Jack stood slowly, walked toward the window, and looked out beside her.

The city lights stretched below, each one a small pulse of life, a story burning briefly before being swallowed by the dark.

Jack: “Maybe Popper was wrong. Maybe there is a history of mankind — just not one we can ever write down. Maybe it exists only in moments like this. Between people. In what we say, what we regret, what we dream.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even that moment fades. And someone, someday, will turn it into a paragraph about the ‘intellectual spirit of the 21st century.’”

Jack: “And it’ll be wrong.”

Jeeny: “Of course. But it’ll still be human.”

Host: Their reflections in the glass — one shadowed, one luminous — looked almost like two eras facing each other. Behind them, the lamplight grew warmer, turning the papers on the table into sheets of gold.

Jeeny: “Perhaps history’s not meant to be accurate. Perhaps it’s meant to remind us we existed.”

Jack: “Even if it lies to do it?”

Jeeny: “Even then. Because even lies have roots in longing — and longing is truth’s twin.”

Host: The rain had stopped completely now. The fog thinned, revealing the faint outline of a river below, its surface rippling with distant lights.

Jack reached for his coat, pulling it over his shoulders. Jeeny stayed by the window, her eyes still searching the night.

Jack: “So we agree — there is no single history of mankind.”

Jeeny: “Only many attempts to remember what being human felt like.”

Host: He smiled faintly, something weary but genuine. Then, without another word, he turned toward the door, his steps echoing softly against the old wooden floor.

Jeeny remained still, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting across her lips.

Outside, dawn began to break — pale and hesitant, spilling across the city like a new page. The fog lifted, revealing everything that had been hidden just moments before: the bridges, the streets, the quiet persistence of life.

And in that fragile light, Popper’s words whispered back to them both:

There is no single story of mankind.
Only countless histories —
each a heartbeat,
each a truth,
each waiting to be heard.