When did we begin to lose faith in our ability to effect change?

Host: The rain had been falling since dawn — a long, unbroken curtain of silver threads blurring the world beyond the café window. The streetlights flickered like weary candles, and puddles on the cracked asphalt mirrored the neon signs in trembling fragments.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of coffee, ink, and old paper. The café felt like a half-forgotten sanctuary — its walls lined with bookshelves, its dim lamplight wrapping everything in amber melancholy.

Jack sat at a corner table, sleeves rolled up, his hands wrapped around a chipped mug. His eyes were grey, but tonight, they looked more like smoke than steel. Jeeny sat across from him, a notebook open, pen poised, her hair falling forward as she leaned closer.

The clock above the counter ticked with deliberate patience, the only rhythm besides the soft drumming of rain.

Jeeny: “Wynton Marsalis once asked, ‘When did we begin to lose faith in our ability to effect change?’”

Jack: quietly “The moment we realized hashtags are easier than action.”

Host: His voice carried a dull edge, like a blade long used but never cleaned. Jeeny’s eyes lifted slowly, filled with that familiar mixture of sadness and defiance.

Jeeny: “You think we’ve lost faith because of technology?”

Jack: “No. Because of comfort. We stopped fighting when we started scrolling. Change used to mean standing in the rain for something you believed in. Now it just means posting about it.”

Host: Outside, a bus passed, its tires slicing through a puddle, sending a wave of muddy water against the glass. Jeeny didn’t flinch. She simply watched the distortion of light ripple down the windowpane.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve already given up.”

Jack: “Not given up — adapted. I’m realistic. Look around, Jeeny. People don’t want revolutions anymore; they want refunds. The world’s a market, not a movement.”

Jeeny: “That’s not true. You can’t measure faith by what trends online. Look at the kids striking for climate, the protests against wars, the teachers standing up for fair pay — change is still alive.”

Jack: “Alive, maybe. But on life support. The noise is louder than the conviction. Everyone wants change until it costs them comfort.”

Jeeny: leaning in “And you? What’s your comfort, Jack?”

Host: Her words hung in the air like a challenge — soft but sharp. Jack didn’t answer at first. He stared into his coffee, watching the thin layer of foam dissolve like old ideals.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought I could change things. I joined every cause, every march. Thought if I shouted loud enough, the system would listen. But the system doesn’t listen, Jeeny. It absorbs.”

Jeeny: “That’s because systems are built by people. The problem isn’t that we can’t effect change — it’s that we’ve stopped believing we are the system.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But tell that to someone who’s been crushed by it.”

Jeeny: “You’re looking at it wrong. Change doesn’t have to be massive to matter. Rosa Parks didn’t end racism. But she shifted the axis of an entire nation. Small acts, Jack — that’s where faith lives.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated the room, and for a heartbeat, her face was framed in blue-white brilliance — fierce, fragile, incandescent.

Jack: “You really think a single act can still move the world in this age? Everyone’s distracted, divided, drowning in information.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we stop waiting for everyone. Maybe it starts with one person refusing to go numb.”

Jack: bitterly “One person against billions? That’s not bravery. That’s delusion.”

Jeeny: softly “Or faith.”

Host: The rain intensified, hammering the roof like applause from some unseen audience. The sound filled the small café, pressing them into the intimacy of their disagreement.

Jack: “You talk about faith like it’s currency. But faith doesn’t build schools. Faith doesn’t fix broken laws.”

Jeeny: “No. But faith builds the people who do.”

Host: Jack looked up sharply. His eyes narrowed, but not in anger — in recognition. For a moment, his cynicism seemed to crack, and through it, something human pulsed.

Jack: “Do you know when I stopped believing? It was after the last protest I went to. We were thousands — chanting, sweating, holding signs. And at the end of the day, they sent out a press release. ‘Authorities appreciate citizens’ peaceful engagement.’ That was it. They didn’t care. Nothing changed.”

Jeeny: “But you showed up. And someone saw you. Maybe some kid in that crowd saw you and thought, ‘If he can stand here, I can too.’ That’s change. It’s not always visible, Jack. It’s contagious.”

Jack: “So faith is just… invisible work?”

Jeeny: “It always was.”

Host: A waitress passed their table, setting down two refilled cups. The steam rose in soft spirals, curling like unspoken prayers. Jeeny wrapped her hands around hers, grounding herself in its warmth.

Jeeny: “Wynton Marsalis was right. We’ve lost faith in ourselves — not because we can’t change things, but because we’ve mistaken change for perfection. We expect revolutions to look like miracles. But sometimes, it’s just showing up again, even when nothing moves.”

Jack: “That sounds exhausting.”

Jeeny: “It is. But surrender costs more.”

Host: The clock ticked louder now. Outside, the rain began to ease, thinning into a quiet drizzle. The city lights shimmered through the haze — not blinding, but steady.

Jack: “You ever wonder if Marsalis was really asking that question to others — or to himself? Maybe even he doubted it.”

Jeeny: “Every believer doubts. That’s what makes their faith real.”

Jack: “So what now? You just keep believing, even when the world’s indifferent?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because indifference is temporary. Change — even slow change — is permanent once it happens. Think of the Berlin Wall, women’s suffrage, vaccines, civil rights. Each one started as disbelief. Someone, somewhere, said, ‘It’ll never happen.’ And then it did.”

Host: Her words landed like soft thunder, deep and patient. Jack’s gaze dropped again, but this time, there was thought — not escape — behind it.

Jack: “You ever think maybe the faith we lost wasn’t in the world, but in each other?”

Jeeny: quietly “Maybe. And maybe the only way to get it back is to start trusting small again.”

Host: The café’s lights dimmed slightly as the barista began cleaning up. Outside, the storm had passed, leaving a faint mist over the streets. Jeeny closed her notebook. Jack stared out the window, his reflection overlapping the city beyond — a face half-shadow, half-light.

Jack: “You know… when you talk like that, it almost sounds possible again.”

Jeeny: “It always was. We just forgot what it feels like.”

Host: The rain stopped completely. A car passed, its tires whispering against the slick pavement. In the window’s reflection, the city seemed reborn — softer, humbler, as if rinsed clean.

Jack: after a long pause “When did we begin to lose faith in our ability to effect change? Maybe it’s not too late to ask the second question — when do we start finding it again?”

Jeeny: “Now, Jack. Always now.”

Host: And for the first time that night, the corner of his mouth lifted into something like a smile — faint, imperfect, but real.

Outside, the clouds began to break, revealing a sliver of moonlight that spilled across the wet street, turning puddles into mirrors.

Host: The world hadn’t changed — not yet. But in that quiet café, two people believed again — and sometimes, that’s where all change begins.