There was once a caustic comment from someone suggesting I was

Host: The evening had the peculiar warmth of late autumn — the kind where mist and memory hang in the air like twin ghosts. The pub was an old one, tucked away at the corner of a narrow cobbled street, its windows fogged, its lamps flickering with amber gentleness. The sign above the door read The Hedgehog and Lantern, and it smelled faintly of ale, oak smoke, and storytelling.

Host: Inside, a fire crackled, reflecting against rows of framed book covers — fantasy, satire, wit, the sort of art that lives longer than the hands that made it. At the corner table sat Jack, a pint half-finished, flipping idly through a well-thumbed paperback with the faded name Terry Pratchett scrawled across its cover. Across from him sat Jeeny, scarf wrapped around her neck, her fingers tracing the condensation on her glass.

Host: From the old radio behind the bar, a voice — soft, amused, unmistakably wise — played through a recording of an interview.

“There was once a caustic comment from someone suggesting I was breeding a new race. Fans from different countries have married, amazing things like that. I’ve been to some of the weddings. I went to one here the other day, a pagan ceremony.” — Terry Pratchett

Host: The sound faded into the gentle hum of the pub. A few patrons chuckled quietly — not because the quote was funny, but because it was so Terry. A smile that looked like philosophy in disguise.

Jeeny: smiling faintly “He had that way, didn’t he? Saying something absurd and profound at the same time.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Yeah. The kind of man who could turn cynicism into warmth without ever losing the bite.”

Jeeny: softly “Imagine that — people finding love because of words. Because of a story.”

Jack: grinning “That’s the real magic, isn’t it? Not dragons or swords — just connection.”

Jeeny: looking into her drink “And that’s what he meant by ‘a new race.’ Not bloodlines — belief lines. People who find each other through imagination.”

Jack: raising an eyebrow “So you’re saying books are matchmaking devices now?”

Jeeny: laughing “No — they’re mirrors. People see the same reflections in them and realize they’re not alone.”

Host: The fire popped, scattering sparks that drifted upward like little golden thoughts. The bartender, polishing glasses, smiled faintly as if he’d heard the conversation a hundred times before — different faces, same ache.

Jack: “You know what I love about that quote? He’s not defending himself. He’s just amused. Someone accuses him of playing god — and he just laughs, says, ‘Well, yes, but it’s working.’”

Jeeny: grinning “That’s the kind of grace I wish more creators had. Not defensiveness — delight.”

Jack: sighing softly “It’s rare. These days everyone’s too busy justifying themselves online. He just… lived the story. Let the rest argue about what it meant.”

Jeeny: quietly “And maybe that’s why people fell in love through his words. Because he wrote with belief instead of ego.”

Jack: after a pause “Belief in what?”

Jeeny: softly “In people. Even the ridiculous ones.”

Host: The flames danced, as if agreeing.

Jack: “It’s strange though, isn’t it? To think of stories having offspring. Fiction giving birth to reality.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t that what we do every day? We build our lives out of the stories we believe about ourselves.”

Jack: smiling faintly “So, what story are you living?”

Jeeny: smiling back “The one where imperfection is the point.”

Jack: chuckling “Pratchett would approve of that.”

Jeeny: nodding “He’d probably turn it into a joke about gods tripping over their own creations.”

Jack: “And then somehow make you cry in the next sentence.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the kind of storyteller who reminds you humor is just truth with better timing.”

Host: The pub door creaked open, letting in a gust of cold wind and the faint smell of rain. A couple entered, laughing, hand in hand — both wearing mismatched cloaks, probably fresh from some fan convention nearby. They ordered cider, found a corner table, and began talking about Discworld cities as though they’d lived in them.

Jeeny: watching them, smiling softly “You see that? That’s what he meant. A whole world he built on paper bleeding into this one.”

Jack: following her gaze “That’s immortality, isn’t it? When fiction outlasts the author.”

Jeeny: quietly “Or when love does.”

Jack: softly “You’re getting sentimental on me.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “So was he.”

Host: The rain started, gentle but persistent, tapping the windows like the slow applause of nature. The fire hissed, catching the sound and turning it into rhythm.

Jack: “You know, I used to think imagination was escapism. Now I think it’s resistance. A refusal to accept the dull version of the world.”

Jeeny: nodding “Yes. And Pratchett understood that better than anyone. He built fantasy not to escape reality — but to expose it.”

Jack: smiling “That’s why people from everywhere connected to it. The absurd was the disguise. The truth was the heart.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s why his stories made people fall in love. Because they were built on compassion disguised as comedy.”

Jack: quietly “That’s the best kind of spell — one that makes you laugh while it heals you.”

Host: The light from the fire flickered against their faces, painting them in shades of orange and thought.

Jeeny: after a pause “You know what I think? Every story that touches people is a form of matchmaking. Not between characters — between souls. It finds the ones who were always meant to meet.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Then maybe we owe every writer a thank-you for playing fate.”

Jeeny: softly “Or for believing we were worth the story.”

Host: The clock above the bar struck midnight, and the last few patrons began to leave, their laughter fading into the rain. The fire dimmed, but its glow lingered on the table between Jack and Jeeny — two dreamers holding warmth against the chill of the world.

Host: They sat in silence for a while, the kind of silence that isn’t empty but full — filled with gratitude for those who turned ink into connection, and pages into proof that humanity can still be kind.

Host: And somewhere in the rhythm of the fire and rain, Terry Pratchett’s words echoed softly — not just as wit, but as legacy:

that imagination can unite strangers,
that laughter can bind worlds,
and that when stories bring hearts together,
we are, in some quiet, miraculous way,
breeding a new race —
not of blood,
but of wonder.

Host: The rain fell harder. The fire dimmed.
And in that flickering golden light, the world —
for a moment —
felt enchanted again.