There's no reason to be the richest man in the cemetery. You

Host: The clock struck midnight in the small-town diner, the kind that never closed and never changed. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, humming like a tired old soul trying to stay awake. Outside, the wind howled across the empty highway, carrying whispers of trucks, ghosts, and forgotten dreams.

Jack sat in his usual booth — corner seat, coffee gone cold, suit jacket crumpled beside him. His grey eyes reflected the dull neon sign flickering through the window: OPEN 24 HOURS.

Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea, the steam curling around her fingers like a living thought. Her face was calm, but her eyes — deep, brown, unflinching — watched him like she was reading a truth he wasn’t ready to say aloud.

Pinned between them, written on a napkin in Jack’s own handwriting, were the words he’d scribbled an hour ago:

"There’s no reason to be the richest man in the cemetery. You can’t do any business from there." — Colonel Sanders

Jack: (rubbing his temple) “The man built an empire out of fried chicken and failure — and then drops this like he’s a philosopher. You think he actually believed it, Jeeny? Or was it just good PR?”

Jeeny: (softly, smiling) “Maybe both. Maybe that’s what makes it true. He didn’t start KFC until he was sixty-five, Jack. Most people give up long before that. But he understood something — that money without time isn’t wealth. It’s just a well-decorated grave.”

Host: The rain began, slow at first — drops tapping against the glass, echoing like the rhythm of mortality. The diner clock ticked, steady and indifferent.

Jack stared at the napkin again — the ink had bled slightly where a drop of condensation had fallen, like even the paper was trying to erase the idea of permanence.

Jack: “So what are you saying? That success isn’t worth dying for? Easy for people like you to say — people who don’t have to fight for every damn inch.”

Jeeny: (meeting his gaze) “I’m saying success isn’t worth dying before you live. Look around you, Jack. Half the people who chase riches don’t even notice when they stop being alive — they just keep moving out of habit.”

Jack: (bitterly) “You say that like it’s a choice. Like we all get to stroll through life painting sunsets and sipping tea. Some of us have bills. Expectations. Competition.”

Jeeny: “And when it’s over, what will any of that matter? The mortgage, the meetings, the deadlines? You think the cemetery has a ‘net worth’ column?”

Host: The words hit him like quiet thunder — not loud, but echoing deep. A truck rumbled past outside, its headlights briefly slicing through the diner, illuminating the empty seats and the dust hanging in the air like ghosts of conversations past.

Jack: (after a long pause) “You sound like my mother. She used to say, ‘Jack, what’s the point of making money if you don’t have anyone to spend it with?’”

Jeeny: (smiling gently) “She was right.”

Jack: (half-laughing) “She died broke, Jeeny. Meanwhile, I’ve got more money now than I ever dreamed — houses, stocks, investments. And I’ve never felt emptier.”

Host: The rain outside thickened, becoming a steady curtain. The neon sign flickered again, its blue light slicing across his tired face — one half illuminated, one half in shadow.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the problem. You built walls instead of bridges. You spent your life trading hours for digits, but digits don’t hug you when you’re scared. They don’t laugh with you. They don’t sing.”

Jack: (defensively) “Money gives freedom.”

Jeeny: “No. It gives options. Freedom is when you stop needing it to prove you exist.”

Host: Jack’s hand trembled slightly as he set his coffee cup down. The sound of ceramic on metal echoed like a punctuation mark in a poem too honest to finish.

Jack: “You know, when I was young, I thought success would fill the hole. That if I just kept working, kept climbing, I’d finally be... safe.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “And are you?”

Jack: (after a beat) “No. I’m just tired.”

Host: The wind moaned through a crack in the window, carrying a low whistle that sounded almost like laughter — the kind that mocks ambition, that knows how brief everything is.

Jeeny: “You remind me of Sanders himself. He failed more than a dozen times — restaurants, gas stations, jobs. But he kept going. The difference was, he finally learned what mattered. He said, ‘There’s no reason to be the richest man in the cemetery,’ because he understood that legacy isn’t built in ledgers. It’s built in love — in how many hearts you feed before you go.”

Jack: (leaning forward, voice rough) “But love doesn’t pay the bills.”

Jeeny: (gently) “No. But it pays you.”

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it pulsed, heavy with truths neither of them wanted to name. The jukebox clicked, switching songs. A slow, bluesy number filled the air — gravel, soul, and regret mixed together like smoke.

Jack: (softly) “You ever think about death, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Every day. Not in fear — in gratitude. It reminds me that life’s the only thing I actually own. Everything else is borrowed.”

Jack: “I think about it too. But for me, it’s like a shadow I keep trying to outrun. Every deal I close, every dollar I make — it’s just another wall between me and the inevitable.”

Jeeny: (whispering) “Then stop building walls, Jack. Build something that breathes.”

Host: The rain eased, turning into a drizzle that sounded like whispers on tin. The candle at their table — one of those cheap red-glass votives — flickered, its flame small but unwavering.

Jeeny: “Do you know what I think Sanders meant, really?”

Jack: (tired) “Enlighten me.”

Jeeny: “He wasn’t saying don’t make money. He was saying — don’t let it become your only proof of life. You can’t take it with you. You can’t trade it for time. The richest man in the cemetery is still dead. But the one who loved, laughed, and left something kind behind — he’s immortal.”

Host: Her words lingered like smoke in sunlight. Jack leaned back, staring at the ceiling, eyes glinting with something — exhaustion, maybe, or awakening.

He whispered, almost to himself:

Jack: “Immortal, huh? Sounds expensive.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Not at all. Just costs everything you thought you needed.”

Host: The clock struck one. The diner was nearly empty now, just the hum of the refrigerator and the soft shuffle of the waitress mopping near the counter.

Jack picked up the napkin with the quote on it, folded it carefully, and slipped it into his jacket pocket — a small act, but one that carried the weight of decision.

Jeeny finished her tea, the last sip gone cold. She looked at him — not with pity, but with quiet certainty.

Jack: (standing, adjusting his coat) “Maybe I’ll take a few days off. Go somewhere that doesn’t need Wi-Fi.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Careful. That sounds dangerously close to living.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Guess it’s time I tried failing at something new.”

Host: The door bell chimed as they stepped out into the cool night air. The rain had stopped, leaving behind the soft smell of wet asphalt and earth.

The neon sign behind them buzzed once, then flickered out completely — as if even the night had grown tired of advertising.

Host: They walked in silence down the empty street, the moonlight glinting off puddles like small mirrors of memory.

In that stillness, Colonel Sanders’ words echoed — not as a warning, but as a benediction.

That all the wealth in the world couldn’t buy back a single moment of living... and that the truest business a man could ever run was the one that traded time for presence, work for wonder, and profit for peace.

Host: The camera panned wide, capturing the long stretch of empty road and the two silhouettes walking toward the faint glow of morning.

The wind carried the last line, soft as prayer:

“Better a full heart than a full vault — because no one ever makes a deal with death.”

And as the screen faded to dawn, the world exhaled — rich, fleeting, and alive.