When your time comes to die, be not like those whose hearts are

Host: The campfire burned low beneath a canopy of ancient pines, their branches whispering against the black sky like old souls telling secrets. Beyond the ring of firelight, the forest stretched endlessly — dark, breathing, alive. The moonlight spilled silver across the clearing, catching the smoke as it curled upward like a spirit on its way somewhere higher.

Jack sat close to the flames, his hands cupped around a tin mug, the rising steam ghosting his face. His eyes reflected the fire — restless, uncertain. Jeeny sat across from him, a wool blanket draped over her shoulders, her expression calm but deep — the kind of calm that comes from knowing both pain and peace.

She spoke softly, almost like reciting scripture:

"When your time comes to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home." — Tecumseh.

Host: The words carried through the cold night air, steady and strong, and when they ended, even the forest seemed to listen — the wind pausing mid-breath, the fire crackling in reverence.

Jack: “Powerful. But easy to say when you’re not the one dying.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe that’s why you say it before you die — so when the time comes, you’ve already made peace with it.”

Jack: “Peace. That’s the trick, isn’t it? People talk about peace like it’s a destination, but it’s really a decision.”

Jeeny: “So make it.”

Jack: “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. But it’s necessary.”

Host: A log collapsed in the fire, sparks shooting upward — brief bursts of light swallowed by the night.

Jack stared into the flames. “You know, when I was a kid, I thought dying like a hero meant something glorious — flags, music, sacrifice. But I think Tecumseh meant something quieter. Dying like someone who knows he lived right.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Dying without bargaining. Without regret.”

Jack: “I don’t know anyone who doesn’t regret something.”

Jeeny: “Then the goal isn’t to be flawless, Jack. It’s to be whole.”

Host: The firelight caught her face — soft, unflinching, illuminated by something older than belief.

Jeeny: “Tecumseh was teaching something deeper than courage. He was teaching alignment — the kind where your life and your death belong to the same truth.”

Jack: “You mean integrity.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Living in a way that death can’t embarrass.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, though there was a tremor in it.

Jack: “You ever think about it? Your death?”

Jeeny: “Every day.”

Jack: “That’s morbid.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s liberating. Death’s not the opposite of life, Jack — it’s the mirror that shows you whether you’ve really been living.”

Host: The wind rose briefly, rustling the leaves, carrying the scent of pine and ash. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called — low, haunting, eternal.

Jack: “You know, my grandfather used to say something similar. He fought in Korea. Said the men who feared death most were the ones who hadn’t lived fully yet.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Fear is the echo of unfinished living.”

Jack: “And you think Tecumseh’s song — his death song — was a way of finishing?”

Jeeny: “I think it was his way of affirming. To sing before death is to declare you belong to life all the way through. That’s not denial. That’s mastery.”

Host: Her words glowed in the dark like embers. Jack’s gaze softened — not in surrender, but understanding.

Jack: “You really think it’s possible — to die without fear?”

Jeeny: “Not without fear. But without avoidance. Courage isn’t the absence of fear. It’s the ability to walk with it — to look at it and say, ‘You can come too, but I’m leading.’”

Host: The fire popped, and for a moment, its flame leaned toward her — as if drawn to the conviction in her voice.

Jack: “I’ve always envied people like Tecumseh. People who see death as returning home. I can’t imagine it feels like home.”

Jeeny: “It will, if you make peace with where you’ve been. Maybe home isn’t a place. Maybe it’s acceptance.”

Jack: “Acceptance of what?”

Jeeny: “Of having been human. Imperfect. Beautiful. Temporary.”

Host: A gust of wind lifted a shower of ash into the night sky — tiny constellations glowing for a heartbeat, then gone. Jack followed them with his eyes, as if watching the universe rehearse its own epilogue.

Jack: “You know, I used to think legacy was what mattered — leaving something behind, being remembered. But maybe that’s just another way of fearing death.”

Jeeny: “It is. We build monuments because we’re afraid our names will fade. But what if fading is mercy? What if disappearing is part of the rhythm?”

Jack: “That’s a terrifying kind of mercy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But the earth doesn’t mourn every leaf that falls. It trusts the cycle. Maybe we should too.”

Host: The firelight dimmed, the flames lower now, steady and sure. The forest seemed to close in — not threatening, but intimate, as if listening to a conversation it had heard a thousand times across human history.

Jack: “So when the time comes for you — your death song — what will it sound like?”

Jeeny smiled, her eyes reflecting both the fire and the stars.

Jeeny: “It’ll sound like forgiveness.”

Jack: “Forgiveness for what?”

Jeeny: “For everything — the people who hurt me, the things I failed at, the chances I didn’t take. For the fact that I was only ever trying.”

Host: The silence that followed was thick and holy, broken only by the soft sigh of the wind moving through the trees.

Jack looked at her, his face open in a way it rarely was.

Jack: “I think mine would sound like gratitude.”

Jeeny: “That’s a good song to die to.”

Jack: “It’s not finished yet.”

Jeeny: “Then keep writing it. Every kindness, every truth, every time you choose to stay instead of run — that’s another verse.”

Host: The moonlight brightened, spreading across the clearing until it touched the dying fire. The night felt less like an ending, more like an exhale — vast, quiet, forgiving.

Jeeny: “Tecumseh didn’t mean heroism as glory, Jack. He meant heroism as authenticity. To die like a hero is to die aligned — with no apologies, no pretending.”

Jack: “To go home without leaving yourself behind.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The camera rose slowly, framing them small against the expanse of dark trees and luminous sky. The fire crackled one last time, a soft heartbeat fading into embers.

And as the scene dissolved into starlight, Tecumseh’s words seemed to echo from somewhere beyond the forest — not as instruction, but as invocation:

That death is not defeat,
but the final harmony between courage and peace.
That to truly live
is to make each day a verse in your own song.
And when your time comes,
to face it not with fear,
but with a soul ready to sing.