While seeking revenge, dig two graves - one for yourself.

Host: The graveyard was veiled in fog — a slow, breathing mist that swallowed the moonlight and exhaled silence. The air was thick with the smell of wet earth and cedar, and in the distance, an old church bell tolled, its sound deep and hollow, like the echo of an unburied truth.

Jack stood beside a half-dug grave, his hands gripping the shovel as if it were the last weapon he trusted. The dirt was dark, damp, and heavy. Beside him, a lantern flickered — its trembling flame catching the sharpness in his eyes, the fury still refusing to die.

Jeeny stood a few feet away, her coat pulled tight, her face calm but marked by sorrow. The fog curled around her ankles, a ghostly curtain that seemed to protect her from the weight of his silence.

Between them, a single sheet of paper fluttered in the wind, pinned by a stone. On it, written in Jack’s rough handwriting, were the words:

"While seeking revenge, dig two graves — one for yourself." — Douglas Horton

Jeeny: (quietly) “You’ve been out here for hours.”

Jack: (not looking up) “It takes time to bury a man properly.”

Jeeny: “Is that what you’re doing? Burying him — or yourself?”

Jack: (pausing, then sharply) “He ruined everything, Jeeny. Stole from me. Lied. Took years of my life and made them his. I’m not burying myself. I’m reclaiming what’s mine.”

Jeeny: “And when the hole’s deep enough, Jack, what’s left for you to stand on?”

Host: The wind rose, sweeping the fog across the graves like a moving shroud. The faint flame of the lantern shivered. Jack leaned on the shovel, breathing hard, his voice low but edged with fire.

Jack: “You sound like every preacher who ever told me to forgive what can’t be forgiven.”

Jeeny: “No. I sound like someone who knows what revenge does to the hands that hold it.”

Jack: (bitter laugh) “You think I care what it does to me?”

Jeeny: “I think you already do. Or you wouldn’t be here talking to the dirt instead of sleeping.”

Host: Jack dropped the shovel. It struck the earth with a dull, final sound. His chest rose and fell unevenly. His eyes darted toward the gravestone beside him — unmarked, clean, waiting.

Jack: “Forgiveness is weakness. That’s what they tell you to do when they’ve already won.”

Jeeny: “Forgiveness isn’t weakness. It’s self-defense. You think revenge makes you strong, but all it does is keep you tethered to the wound.”

Jack: “So I’m just supposed to let it go? Pretend none of it mattered?”

Jeeny: “No. Remember it. Learn from it. But don’t live in it. Every act of revenge builds another cage, and the key always fits both locks.”

Host: Her words floated through the fog, fragile but cutting. Jack turned toward her, eyes glinting in the lantern light, his voice trembling between defiance and exhaustion.

Jack: “You ever been betrayed like that, Jeeny? You ever had your faith ripped out and handed back in pieces?”

Jeeny: (softly) “Yes. And that’s why I’m not holding a shovel.”

Host: Silence. The fog thickened, wrapping around them like grief that refused to settle. Somewhere far away, an owl called — lonely, low.

Jack: “It’s not about revenge. It’s about justice.”

Jeeny: “Justice doesn’t come from hate. Justice is balance. Revenge is hunger — and it doesn’t stop when it’s full.”

Jack: (turning sharply) “And what if it’s the only thing keeping me alive?”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve already started digging.”

Host: The lantern flickered violently, then steadied. The flame threw their shadows against the fog — two distorted shapes, one standing, one bent over the earth. The ground beneath them seemed to breathe, as if listening.

Jack: (quietly) “You think I don’t know it’s poison? Every time I picture his face, it burns through me. It’s like the only thing that gives me shape anymore.”

Jeeny: “Because you’ve mistaken pain for purpose.”

Jack: “What else is left when you’ve been stripped of everything?”

Jeeny: “Yourself. If you’re lucky enough to find what’s left of it before the hole’s too deep.”

Host: A gust of wind blew, scattering leaves across the graveyard. The lantern sputtered. Jack’s hands trembled slightly as he picked up the shovel again — not to dig, but to hold, as if it were both burden and anchor.

Jeeny: (softly) “You know what that quote means, don’t you? ‘Dig two graves.’ It’s not prophecy. It’s instruction. You can’t bury hatred without climbing in beside it.”

Jack: (voice breaking) “He deserves this, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “He might. But you don’t.”

Host: Jack froze. The fog parted briefly, revealing the pale shape of the moon, silver and watchful. His jaw tightened, but his eyes — those tired, furious eyes — began to falter.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve never wanted to destroy someone.”

Jeeny: “I have. But then I realized the destruction always circles back.”

Jack: “Then how did you stop it?”

Jeeny: “I didn’t. I let it burn until there was nothing left to feed it. And then I left the ashes behind.”

Host: He looked at her — really looked — and for the first time, the anger in him looked smaller, like a creature losing its shape in the light.

Jack: (whispering) “And if I let it go?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe, for the first time, you stop being his victim.”

Host: The rain began again, light and steady, softening the outlines of everything — the graves, the stones, even the anger in the air. Jack dropped the shovel; it fell into the mud with a dull, tired sound. His shoulders sagged, the fury that had held him upright now collapsing under its own weight.

He turned to Jeeny, his voice quieter than the rain.

Jack: “You think forgiveness is possible for everyone?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think peace is.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “And that’s different.”

Jeeny: “Very.”

Host: The fog shifted again, revealing two graves side by side — one finished, one open. Jack stared at them for a long moment, then bent down, pressing his hand against the cold, damp earth.

Jeeny stepped closer, the lantern’s light falling on both their faces — the anger fading, replaced by something older, sadder, and softer.

Jeeny: “Maybe the second grave isn’t meant for your body, Jack. Maybe it’s for your rage.”

Jack: (after a pause) “Then tonight, I bury it.”

Host: He took the shovel and filled the unfinished grave with slow, deliberate motions. Each clump of earth landed like a heartbeat calming down. When he was done, he stood silently, breathing the damp air as if for the first time.

The storm passed. The fog began to lift. The world, once blurred, became whole again.

Jeeny placed her hand on his arm.

Jeeny: “You don’t win by burying him. You win by walking away still human.”

Jack: (softly) “That’s harder.”

Jeeny: “The hardest things always are.”

Host: And there, under the patient gaze of the moon, the graveyard exhaled its silence once more. The two graves stood — one for the past, one for the poison.

And as they walked away, leaving the earth to its rest, Horton’s words echoed faintly through the clearing mist — not as a warning now, but as release:

That in the pursuit of vengeance,
we dig not only the grave of our enemy,
but the resting place of our own peace.