When one burns one's bridges, what a very nice fire it makes.

Host: The night was a trembling thing — alive with shadows and smoke. Out beyond the city, where the train tracks split into dark fields, an old warehouse stood half-abandoned, its windows broken, its walls streaked with graffiti and memory.

The flames were already rising when Jeeny arrived. A bright orange glow painted the sky, dancing like something both wild and holy. And there, standing before it — motionless, lit by the fire’s breath — was Jack, his face hard, his eyes reflecting a dozen burning colors.

Jeeny: “Jack… what did you do?”

Jack: (without turning) “I did what I should’ve done years ago.”

Host: His voice was low, calm — too calm. The fire crackled, wood splitting, metal groaning under the heat. The warehouse that had once been his workshop, his dream, his prison, was now a bonfire against the night.

Jeeny: “You burned it?”

Jack: “Every blueprint, every file, every contract — gone.” (pauses) “Dylan Thomas once said, ‘When one burns one’s bridges, what a very nice fire it makes.’”

Jeeny: (staring at the flames) “You think this is nice?”

Jack: “I think it’s necessary.”

Host: The fire’s reflection flickered in her eyes, turning brown into gold. The heat made the air shimmer, the smell of burning paint biting the back of her throat.

Jeeny: “You really think destruction is freedom?”

Jack: “No. I think it’s clarity.”

Jeeny: “Clarity?”

Jack: “Yeah. Sometimes you need to burn down what’s behind you to stop looking back.”

Jeeny: “And what about what’s ahead of you, Jack? What are you walking into now — ashes?”

Jack: (turns to her, his face lit by the fire) “Maybe. But at least they’re mine.”

Host: A gust of wind made the flames leap higher, scattering sparks into the dark like shattered stars. The sound was deafening — wood collapsing, memories breaking apart.

Jeeny: “You think this is brave, but it’s not. It’s running away with style.”

Jack: (coldly) “You don’t understand what it’s like to build something with your soul — and then watch it get twisted by liars and suits. This place stopped being mine long ago. All I did was set it free.”

Jeeny: “Free? Or erased?”

Jack: (takes a slow breath) “There’s no difference when the past’s already dead.”

Host: The firelight trembled over their faces — his sharp and angular, hers soft but defiant. A crow shrieked in the distance, startled by the light.

Jeeny: “Dylan Thomas wasn’t praising destruction, Jack. He was warning us about the pleasure we take in it. That kind of fire doesn’t just burn bridges — it burns what’s left of you.”

Jack: “Then maybe that’s the point. Maybe I wanted it to.”

Host: For a moment, the wind died, and all that remained was the slow, steady roar of the fire — like breathing.

Jeeny: “You’re not angry at them anymore, are you?”

Jack: (pauses) “No.”

Jeeny: “Then who?”

Jack: (looks down) “Myself. For staying too long. For letting them own my time, my name. I should’ve walked away before they took everything.”

Jeeny: (softly) “So instead, you took everything and turned it to smoke.”

Jack: (smiles bitterly) “Exactly. A clean break. No way back.”

Jeeny: “You really think you can start over on ashes?”

Jack: “I think sometimes ashes are the only honest beginning.”

Host: The warehouse roof gave a final groan, then collapsed, sending a wave of sparks into the sky. Jeeny flinched, but Jack didn’t move. His eyes stayed fixed, mesmerized by the destruction — like a man watching his own rebirth.

Jeeny: “You know, the Romans had a word for what you just did. Tabula rasa. A clean slate. But they also knew something else — fire purifies, yes, but it also scars. It never leaves quietly.”

Jack: (quietly) “Neither did I.”

Host: Her hand tightened around the edge of her coat, the flames throwing sharp light across her face.

Jeeny: “You could’ve walked away without burning it, Jack. You could’ve chosen silence instead of spectacle.”

Jack: “And leave a monument to failure standing there? No. I needed to feel it end.”

Host: The camera moved closer, catching the faint glimmer of tears forming in her eyes, though she blinked them away.

Jeeny: “You talk like destruction is some kind of poetry. But the people who burn their bridges often forget — fire doesn’t stop where you tell it to.”

Jack: “You think I care what else it burns? That life was over. That bridge was rot. I’m not crossing back.”

Jeeny: (pleading now) “You always talk about freedom, but you mistake isolation for it. A man alone in the dark isn’t free — he’s just unseen.”

Jack: (voice low) “Then maybe I’d rather be unseen than chained.”

Host: The fire flared, bathing him in a golden-red halo — half saint, half sinner.

Jeeny: “You’re not freeing yourself, Jack. You’re punishing yourself.”

Jack: “Maybe the two are the same thing.”

Host: A long silence. The wind changed direction, carrying the smoke toward them, wrapping them in its scent — bitter, thick, oddly beautiful. The orange glow danced in their eyes, mirrored by the tremor of their breath.

Jeeny: “So what now?”

Jack: “Now I build something new.”

Jeeny: “Out of what?”

Jack: “Whatever’s left.”

Jeeny: “And if nothing’s left?”

Jack: (looks at her, a faint smile) “Then I guess I’ll have to start with myself.”

Host: The flames began to die down, the roar turning into a whisper. The fire had eaten its fill — leaving behind blackened ribs of metal, the skeleton of a past finally finished.

Jeeny: “You know, Plato once said destruction is just creation’s impatient brother.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Then tonight, I guess I was the impatient one.”

Host: They stood in silence, the last of the sparks drifting upward like fireflies escaping the earth. The night air cooled, the light fading until only embers glowed faintly — tiny hearts still beating under the dark.

Jeeny: “You’ll regret this one day.”

Jack: “Maybe. But regret’s just another bridge back — and I’ve burned them all.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Then you’d better make sure the fire keeps you warm.”

Host: Her words hung, suspended between smoke and night. Jack looked out toward the water, where the reflection of the dying fire rippled — bright for a moment, then gone.

Jack: “It will.”

Jeeny: (turns away) “Just don’t mistake warmth for peace.”

Host: The camera pulled back, showing them as two small silhouettes against the vast, glowing ruin. The smoke twisted upward, vanishing into the indifferent stars. The sea wind rose, carrying away the last cinders — and with them, whatever remained of the man Jack used to be.

And for a fleeting second, before the flames fully died, the world seemed to hold its breath — caught between destruction and deliverance, between grief and freedom.

It was, as Dylan Thomas said, a very nice fire.
But in its glow, you could almost see the price of the light.