To give somebody your time is the biggest gift you can give.

Host: The afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of a small community library, dust motes dancing in the lazy light. Outside, the city groaned — horns, footsteps, the tired hum of traffic — but in here, it was quiet, sacred even. Bookshelves stood like old sentinels, their spines faded but proud.

At a wooden table near the window sat Jack, a half-empty cup of coffee cooling beside him, his phone vibrating with unacknowledged messages. Across from him, Jeeny was surrounded by a group of children, teaching them how to read. Their laughter filled the air, sharp and bright as bells.

A small radio on the librarian’s desk whispered a quote into the stillness — “To give somebody your time is the biggest gift you can give.” The voice was soft, accented, familiar: Franka Potente.

Jack looked up from his screen, watching Jeeny trace her finger along a page with a child. She was smiling — the kind of smile that made silence feel full.

Jack: “You really think time’s a gift?”

Jeeny: “Of course it is.”

Jack: “I don’t know. Feels more like a currency — something you spend, not something you give.”

Host: Jeeny glanced up, still smiling, but her eyes carried that quiet defiance he’d come to know. She sent the children off to find picture books before turning back to him.

Jeeny: “You’re wrong, Jack. Money, you can earn back. Time, you can’t. When you give someone your time, you’re giving them a piece of your life you’ll never get again. That’s not a transaction — that’s trust.”

Jack: “Or obligation. You ever notice how everyone demands your time like they’re entitled to it? Meetings, deadlines, favors, calls. Everyone’s grabbing seconds like beggars at a feast.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the problem — we give time away carelessly, not consciously. But when you choose to give it, that’s when it means something.”

Jack: “So what, you think helping these kids read for an hour a week changes the world?”

Jeeny: “No. But it changes their world. And maybe that’s enough.”

Host: The library clock ticked softly, a metronome of passing minutes. A ray of light caught the edge of Jeeny’s hair, turning it gold for an instant. Jack leaned back, watching her, his expression caught between admiration and fatigue.

Jack: “You always make it sound simple. But life’s not built on charity, Jeeny. It’s built on time management. If you don’t guard your time, people will bleed it out of you.”

Jeeny: “And what if being bled is the point?”

Jack: “That’s poetic nonsense.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s being human. Love bleeds. Friendship bleeds. Teaching bleeds. Every connection costs something. But that’s what makes it real.”

Jack: “You’ll burn out.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I’ll burn bright.”

Host: The sunlight shifted, shadows lengthening over the floor. Outside, the sound of a siren cut briefly through the quiet, then faded. Inside, the air grew still again, charged with the weight of what was unsaid.

Jack: “You talk like time’s infinite. Like giving it away makes it multiply.”

Jeeny: “It does, in a way. The time you give someone doesn’t vanish — it echoes. You spend an hour teaching a kid to read, and they spend the rest of their life reading the world differently. You sit with a friend in their worst hour, and you plant the seed of hope. Time given out of care doesn’t die, Jack. It grows.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing cause and effect. The world doesn’t work like that.”

Jeeny: “Then explain to me why you still remember the teacher who stayed after class to help you when you failed math. Or the stranger who talked you down when you almost walked away from it all. You remember them because their time left a mark on you.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tensed. The faint tremor in his hand betrayed the thought she’d just pierced.

Jack: “Don’t dig there.”

Jeeny: “You brought your shovel, not me.”

Jack: “You think I owe my life to a conversation?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes, that’s all it takes. Someone willing to give a few minutes when the world had given up on you.”

Host: The silence stretched. A child’s laughter echoed from between the aisles — innocent, unknowing. Jack exhaled, long and low, the sound of someone fighting memories.

Jack: “There was a guy… years ago. When I was broke. Homeless for a bit, sleeping behind a gas station. He’d bring me coffee every morning. Never asked for anything. Never said much. One day he just didn’t show up anymore. I don’t even know his name. But I still remember the warmth of that cup.”

Jeeny: “See? That’s what I mean. Time given becomes memory. It becomes mercy. That’s the gift.”

Jack: “He probably thought he was wasting his time.”

Jeeny: “Then he wasted it beautifully.”

Host: The clock ticked louder now, each second like a heartbeat. The light outside dimmed — sunset bleeding through the windows, turning the walls a warm gold.

Jeeny: “You hide behind cynicism, Jack, but you give your time more freely than anyone I know. Every time you listen. Every time you stay when you could walk away. You act like you’re made of stone, but you’re one of the rare ones who still shows up.”

Jack: “Showing up’s just habit.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s love disguised as duty.”

Host: The lights inside the library flickered on, one by one, glowing soft and amber. Outside, the sky turned the color of ink. The children began packing their things, saying goodbye to Jeeny, their small voices full of gratitude.

One little girl tugged Jeeny’s sleeve and whispered, “Will you be here next week?”

Jeeny smiled. “Always.”

Jack watched — and something unspoken shifted in his chest.

Jack: “You really think this — all of this — matters in the long run?”

Jeeny: “If it doesn’t, then what does?”

Jack: “Legacy. Work. Creation.”

Jeeny: “Those are echoes. This is presence.”

Jack: “And presence wins over permanence?”

Jeeny: “Every time.”

Host: The last child left. The library was quiet again, save for the whisper of pages and the hum of the lights. Jeeny gathered her things; Jack stood, stretching, staring at the clock on the wall — 6:43. Two hours gone. Two hours spent.

Jack: “You know, I had a meeting tonight. Investor call. Could’ve been important.”

Jeeny: “Could have been.”

Jack: “You made me miss it.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you gained something instead.”

Jack: “Like what?”

Jeeny: “Time worth remembering.”

Host: Jack laughed softly — not mockingly this time, but like a man startled by his own relief. He grabbed his jacket, walked her to the door.

Outside, the streetlights blinked to life, one by one, like stars reborn.

Jack: “You ever regret giving so much of yourself away?”

Jeeny: “No. The time I give returns to me in ways I can’t predict — in smiles, in stories, in peace. The only regret I have is the time I didn’t give.”

Jack: “You sound like someone who’s never been betrayed.”

Jeeny: “I have. But I’d rather give and be hurt than withhold and become hollow.”

Host: They stepped out into the evening air, cool and alive. The city’s heartbeat was slower now, steadier — as if listening.

Jeeny: “You know, Franka Potente wasn’t just talking about generosity. She was talking about presence. The richest thing you can give anyone — is your attention. In a world obsessed with distraction, focus is sacred.”

Jack: “You make it sound holy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is.”

Host: Jack looked at her then — really looked — the glow of the streetlight framing her face like the last light of belief in a weary world.

Jack: “Alright. You win. Time’s a gift.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Time’s a choice. The gift is that you still have some left to give.”

Host: The camera would linger here — the two of them walking down the quiet street, their shadows stretching long against the pavement. The library behind them dimmed, its lights flickering out one by one, as if nodding in agreement.

The night wasn’t special. There were no fireworks, no miracles. Just two people who had traded hours for honesty.

And in the slow rhythm of their footsteps, in the soft hum of the city breathing around them, one truth shimmered quietly, tender and complete:

To give time — truly, freely, willingly — was to give love itself.