Those who deny freedom to others deserve it not for themselves;

Host: The night was cold and still, the kind of cold that sinks through wool and into bone. A single lamp burned in the window of a half-empty train station, its light casting long, amber shadows across the tiles. The clock above the ticket counter ticked toward midnight.

Jack and Jeeny sat on a wooden bench near the far wall, surrounded by the soft echo of dripping pipes and the distant hum of a vending machine. Jack had a newspaper folded on his lap; Jeeny cradled a flask of hot tea between her hands.

Host: It had been a long day—one of those days when the world feels heavier than usual. They were both quiet, both staring at nothing, until Jack broke the silence.

Jack: “You ever think about Lincoln’s line? ‘Those who deny freedom to others deserve it not for themselves; and under the rule of a just God, cannot long retain it.’” He tapped the edge of the newspaper. “He said that during the Civil War. Still sounds like he’s talking to us.”

Jeeny: Looking up slowly. “He always is. That’s what truth does—it refuses to die quietly.”

Host: The light from the overhead bulb flickered, then steadied again, washing their faces in pale amber. Jeeny’s eyes reflected the light—tired, but alive. Jack’s were shadowed, unreadable.

Jack: “Freedom,” he said flatly. “It’s the most overused word in history. Everyone claims to fight for it, but half the time they’re just fighting for control.”

Jeeny: “And the other half?”

Jack: “They’re just fighting to survive. Call it what you want, but the strong have always written their own version of freedom. The rest just adapt.”

Jeeny: “That’s not freedom, Jack. That’s permission.”

Host: The wind rattled the glass doors, a faint, hollow sound, like distant applause or warning.

Jack: “Permission, freedom, rights—they’re all fragile. You think Lincoln’s idea of a just God still fits this world? If there is a God, He’s let a lot of tyrants keep their crowns.”

Jeeny: Quietly. “Maybe not forever. That’s what Lincoln meant. Freedom denied eventually corrodes its deniers. Look at history—it always turns.”

Jack: “You sound certain.”

Jeeny: “Because I’ve seen it.” She leaned forward, her voice soft but fierce. “Rome fell. Apartheid fell. Every wall built on injustice eventually collapses, even if it takes centuries.”

Jack: “You say that like the world is some moral pendulum. But it’s not. Sometimes it just stops swinging.”

Host: A train whistle sounded far away—a lonely cry swallowed by the night. The sound hung there, then faded into silence again.

Jeeny: “Do you know why freedom matters more than anything, Jack?”

Jack: “Enlighten me.”

Jeeny: “Because without it, every other virtue becomes imitation. Love without freedom is ownership. Faith without freedom is indoctrination. Peace without freedom is obedience.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flickered, a brief crack in his usual composure. He leaned back, his jaw tightening.

Jack: “You think freedom is that pure? It’s an illusion dressed as idealism. The moment you define freedom, someone else defines its limits.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe freedom isn’t a definition. Maybe it’s an act—a daily rebellion against apathy.”

Jack: “A rebellion for whom? For the ones already free?”

Jeeny: “No. For the ones who aren’t—and for the part of ourselves that forgets we ever weren’t.”

Host: The clock ticked louder now, as though marking each breath of their argument. The lamp above them buzzed faintly.

Jack: “You talk like freedom’s some spiritual currency. But let me ask you—what about people who claim freedom while denying it to others? The rich who exploit, the powerful who censor, the pious who condemn? They all think they’re free.”

Jeeny: “Lincoln already answered that. Those who deny freedom to others deserve it not for themselves. Freedom isn’t a reward—it’s a responsibility. You can’t keep it if you hoard it.”

Host: Jeeny’s fingers tightened around her flask, as if trying to hold warmth in a world that kept stealing it.

Jack: “Then why do they always seem to keep it the longest?”

Jeeny: “Because history has a long fuse. Justice burns slow—but it burns.”

Host: Jack’s laugh was soft, weary.

Jack: “You really believe there’s some divine clock keeping score?”

Jeeny: “Not divine. Human. We carry justice inside us, Jack. We just forget to listen.”

Host: The station seemed to hold its breath. The air was thick with the scent of old oil and rust. Jack looked at Jeeny then, really looked, as if seeing the fire behind her calm.

Jack: “You always talk like hope is a fact.”

Jeeny: “It is. History proves it, even if slowly. Do you remember the Berlin Wall? I was a kid when I saw people tear it down with their hands. No guns. No permission. Just the hunger to breathe.”

Jack: Nods slowly. “Yeah. And now, new walls rise.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And they’ll fall too.”

Host: Her words were quiet, but they carried the certainty of sunrise. The light above them flickered again, as if agreeing.

Jack: “You really think we deserve freedom? As a species?”

Jeeny: “Not always. But we’re capable of it. And that’s enough.”

Jack: “Capability isn’t the same as worth.”

Jeeny: “It’s the beginning of it.”

Host: The train finally arrived, its lights cutting through the dark like a moving sunrise. Steam rose, curling around them, blurring the world in silver. They didn’t move yet. They just watched.

Jack: “Lincoln believed in a just God. You really think that kind of justice still exists?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But not as punishment—as consequence. Every act that imprisons another human eventually builds a cage for the soul that committed it.”

Host: The words lingered, more visible than the smoke. Jack’s gaze softened, the cynicism in it flickering like a dying candle.

Jack: “And what if the cage feels comfortable?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s not freedom. It’s fear with good furniture.”

Host: A faint smile touched his lips—a surrender disguised as humor.

Jack: “You always have an answer.”

Jeeny: “No. Just faith in questions.”

Host: The train doors opened with a hiss, the light spilling over the platform. They stood, gathering their coats.

Jack: “You know, maybe Lincoln wasn’t just warning the tyrants. Maybe he was warning all of us. The moment we stop defending freedom for others, we start losing our own.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.” Her voice was soft but steady. “Freedom is either shared—or it dies.”

Host: They stepped onto the platform, their footsteps echoing against the cold tiles. The train rumbled softly, waiting. Behind them, the station lights dimmed, leaving only the glow from the tracks.

The camera pulled back, watching them board, two silhouettes swallowed by the slow dawn of movement.

Host: As the train pulled away, the lamp above their empty bench still flickered—a small, stubborn flame refusing to go out.

And somewhere in the rhythm of steel and distance,
Lincoln’s words breathed again—
a whisper that has never truly stopped:

that freedom, if not given,
will eventually be taken,
and that the hand which chains another
can never stay unbound.