There is no such thing as chance; and what seem to us merest

Host: The storm had passed, but its memory still lingered in the air. Rainwater trickled through the gutters of an ancient cobblestone street, glimmering beneath the flicker of old lamplight. The city, wrapped in midnight silence, seemed to hold its breath—as if listening to its own history.

Inside a small bookshop, its windows fogged and its clock frozen at eleven, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other at a narrow wooden table. Between them lay a half-finished chess game—pieces scattered, mid-battle, frozen like soldiers awaiting orders.

The faint smell of dust, ink, and old paper hung in the air. A single candle burned on the table, its flame trembling but unbroken.

Jeeny: “Friedrich Schiller once said, ‘There is no such thing as chance; and what seem to us merest accident springs from the deepest source of destiny.’”
(she moves a knight, eyes steady on the board) “Do you believe that, Jack? That every accident is fate in disguise?”

Jack: (a half-smile, dry as smoke) “No. I believe life’s just a collection of coincidences we give meaning to after the fact. Destiny is the story we write to make chaos look civilized.”

Host: The candlelight flickered, casting moving shadows over Jack’s face—sharp, tired, searching. The faint thunder of the departing storm echoed in the distance, like the heartbeat of something ancient.

Jeeny: “That’s your problem, Jack. You see randomness where others see pattern. You can’t stand the idea that something larger might be at work—something beyond your control.”

Jack: “Control’s all we’ve got. Everything else is superstition. You think the people who died in that storm last week were chosen by fate? Or was it just... wrong place, wrong time?”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. Maybe wrong place and meant time. Destiny isn’t fairness, Jack—it’s alignment. Like a river carving stone—accidents that aren’t really accidents.”

Host: The wind outside rattled the windowpanes. The candle flame leaned, then steadied. The world beyond the glass was dark, infinite, indifferent. Inside, time had slowed into the rhythm of two human minds locking horns.

Jack: “So if everything is destiny, where’s choice? Free will? You can’t have both.”

Jeeny: “Of course you can. Choice is the language destiny speaks. Each decision we make is part of a pattern we can’t see yet.”

Jack: “Sounds poetic. But meaningless. You can justify anything with that kind of logic. ‘Oh, I lost my job—must be destiny.’ ‘My heart’s broken—fate’s lesson.’ It’s a comfortable way to pretend suffering has purpose.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it does. Maybe the purpose isn’t comfort, but connection. Think about it—how many people in your life did you meet by chance, only to realize later they changed everything?”

Host: Jack shifted, his chair creaking. The memory of something long-buried crossed his face, fleeting as lightning.

Jack: “Once. Maybe twice. But that doesn’t prove fate—it proves probability. You flip a coin enough times, you’ll think the universe is talking.”

Jeeny: “But what if it is? What if the coin flips you?”

Host: The silence that followed was heavy—alive with unsaid truths. The candle crackled, its wax pooling like time melting slowly toward revelation.

Jack: “You sound like a mystic.”

Jeeny: “No. Just someone who believes there’s a heartbeat under chaos. That every event—every heartbreak, every meeting, every missed train—fits somewhere in a tapestry too large for us to see.”

Jack: “And if you’re wrong?”

Jeeny: “Then I’ve still lived believing life has meaning. Can you say the same?”

Host: The rain outside had softened into mist. The city hummed faintly—cars in the far distance, footsteps echoing in alleys, the whisper of wet leaves against the pavement.

Jack: “Meaning’s an invention. A comfort blanket for fragile minds. The universe doesn’t care whether you fall in love or fall off a bridge.”

Jeeny: “But we care. And that’s enough. Schiller wasn’t saying destiny is kindness—he was saying it’s depth. The accidents that tear us apart are the same ones that teach us who we are.”

Jack: “So suffering is divine now?”

Jeeny: “Not divine. Essential.”

Host: Jack stood, pacing toward the window. The light of the candle caught his reflection—a man caught between disbelief and longing. The rain on the glass made his image ripple like a ghost uncertain of its own existence.

Jack: “You really think every pain has a purpose? That fate’s a teacher and not a sadist?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s both. Like fire—it burns, but it also gives light. You can’t choose how it touches you, but you can choose what you become from it.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice softened, a tone that carried memory more than argument.

Jeeny: “When my father died, I thought it was pure cruelty. He was young, healthy, good. There was no reason. But then—years later—I met the doctor who treated him. She told me she became a doctor because of his case. Because she couldn’t stand losing another patient that way. She’s saved hundreds since. Was that chance, Jack? Or destiny’s way of rebalancing the scale?”

Jack: (quietly) “That’s just circumstance.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it means something. And that’s what matters.”

Host: The candle flared, a small rebellion against the dark. Jack turned, his eyes now softer, the edges of cynicism dulled by thought.

Jack: “So destiny’s just meaning—written backward, revealed only when it’s too late to change it?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Maybe it’s the thread you only see after the tapestry’s done.”

Host: Jack sat again, the chessboard between them glowing faintly in the amber light. He moved a pawn forward, his voice lower now, measured, reflective.

Jack: “You know, I used to think I met you by accident.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And now?”

Jack: “Now I’m not so sure.”

Host: The sound of her laugh, quiet and real, filled the space like warmth returning to a long-cold room. Outside, the first light of dawn began to creep between the cracks of the storm clouds.

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s what Schiller meant, Jack. There are no accidents—only awakenings we don’t recognize until the light changes.”

Jack: “Or maybe destiny’s just the name we give the moments that make us feel less alone.”

Jeeny: “Either way... it still leads us here.”

Host: The sunlight finally touched the table, glinting off the silver chess pieces, the wax of the dying candle, and the edges of their hands—close, almost touching.

The clock, silent all night, ticked once. Then again.

Outside, the city began to wake, and the world—still uncertain, still beautiful—turned once more under the illusion, or the truth, of destiny.

And in that still room filled with light and dust and the scent of candle smoke, two souls sat quietly, each no longer sure whether they were playing the game… or being played by something far greater.