Wise people say nothing in dangerous times.

Host: The wind howled through the empty streets, rattling the shutters of abandoned cafés and tearing old posters from cracked walls. The city was silent, not the peaceful kind of silence, but the kind that trembles — the kind that follows fear.

The moon hung low and pale, a dim witness to a night soaked in tension. Far in the distance, sirens wailed, then cut abruptly. Somewhere, a door slammed, footsteps echoed, then faded.

Inside a narrow apartment with drawn curtains, a single lamp burned weakly, casting long, fractured shadows across the room. Jack sat by the window, cigarette in hand, watching the street below. The smoke curled upward, lazy but nervous. Jeeny paced behind him, her steps soft but deliberate, her face half-lit, half-hidden.

The air smelled of dust, ink, and danger. On the small table between them sat a stack of folded papers — words neither of them dared to read out loud.

Jeeny: (quietly) “John Selden once said, ‘Wise people say nothing in dangerous times.’”

Jack: (without turning) “Then I guess we’ve been wise for too long.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe we’ve just been afraid.”

Jack: “Sometimes those two wear the same face.”

Jeeny: “You think silence protects us?”

Jack: “No. But it postpones the storm.”

Jeeny: “And when the storm passes?”

Jack: (inhales deeply) “If it passes — then maybe it was worth keeping quiet.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked — too loud, too steady. The rhythm of time felt intrusive, mocking. Every second stretched between them like a taut wire ready to snap.

Outside, a car slowed near the corner, headlights slicing through the curtain cracks. Jack froze. Jeeny held her breath. The car lingered — then moved on.

They exhaled together, relief and resentment tangled in one long sigh.

Jeeny: (softly) “You can’t live like this forever, Jack. Always waiting for permission to speak.”

Jack: “I’m not waiting. I’m surviving.”

Jeeny: “There’s a difference?”

Jack: “In times like these, no.”

Jeeny: “You sound like one of them.”

Jack: “I sound like someone who’s seen what happens when words get people killed.”

Host: The lamp flickered, dimmed, then steadied again. Jeeny walked to the window, peeled back the curtain just enough to see the empty street below. The reflection of her eyes in the glass was restless — the kind of restlessness that belongs to people who still believe speaking matters.

Jack’s face, in contrast, was weary — the quiet exhaustion of someone who’s watched belief turn into consequence.

Jeeny: “When did silence become wisdom instead of surrender?”

Jack: “When truth became treason.”

Jeeny: “You’re saying it’s dangerous to be honest.”

Jack: “No, I’m saying it’s fatal to be heard.”

Jeeny: “So what — we whisper for the rest of our lives?”

Jack: (shrugs) “If whispering keeps you alive, it’s louder than dying.”

Jeeny: “That’s not living, Jack. That’s hiding.”

Jack: “And what do you call shouting into a void that shoots back?”

Host: The rain began to fall, first a whisper, then a downpour. The city blurred behind the streaked window — a landscape of shadow and light, of secrets buried beneath survival. The sound of rain masked the tension in their voices, but not the truth behind it.

The papers on the table fluttered, disturbed by the draft. Words — dangerous ones — visible for a heartbeat before Jack pinned them down with his hand.

Jeeny: “You think fear’s the price of wisdom?”

Jack: “No. I think fear’s the tax you pay for staying alive.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound noble.”

Jack: “It’s not noble. It’s necessary.”

Jeeny: “And yet every necessary silence feeds the lie.”

Jack: “And every loud truth feeds the grave.”

Jeeny: (turns sharply) “So what — we just wait for someone else to speak first?”

Jack: “Someone braver. Or more foolish.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both.”

Host: The rain pounded harder, drowning the sound of their debate. Jeeny sat down across from him, the lamplight outlining her defiance in gold. Jack’s cigarette burned low, the ember flaring with every slow drag.

Between them, the stack of papers — letters, poems, maybe protests — glowed faintly under the light, a quiet rebellion that hadn’t yet dared to breathe.

Jeeny: “You know what happens when everyone stays silent?”

Jack: “They survive.”

Jeeny: “They disappear.”

Jack: “Same thing in the end.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Survival without voice isn’t life — it’s existence under permission.”

Jack: “Permission keeps people safe.”

Jeeny: “No. It keeps them obedient.”

Host: The windowpane rattled, thunder rolled in the distance. The electricity flickered once more — then steadied, leaving the shadows trembling like a heartbeat.

Jeeny reached for one of the papers — her hand trembling slightly — and unfolded it. The handwriting was raw, urgent. She didn’t read it aloud. She just looked at it, then at Jack.

Jeeny: “You wrote these.”

Jack: (quietly) “A long time ago.”

Jeeny: “Before you got wise?”

Jack: (looks away) “Before I got tired.”

Jeeny: “They’re good. Honest.”

Jack: “They’re dangerous.”

Jeeny: “So is silence, Jack. It just kills slower.”

Jack: (after a pause) “You don’t understand. The world’s changed.”

Jeeny: “The world always changes. Courage doesn’t.”

Host: The rain softened again, as if the sky itself were listening. Jeeny’s voice dropped — not to whisper, but to steady.

Her next words carried that quiet conviction that sounds like prophecy when the world has forgotten how to hope.

Jeeny: “Selden said wise people say nothing in dangerous times. But maybe that’s only half true. Maybe the wise stay silent — and the brave break the silence. And maybe history only remembers the brave.”

Jack: (slowly) “And what if they die for it?”

Jeeny: “Then at least their silence doesn’t outlive them.”

Jack: (looking at her, voice breaking) “You talk like dying’s easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. But living afraid is worse.”

Host: The room seemed to still — the clock ticking slower, the air denser, as though the world outside were waiting for their decision. The lamp flame wavered but did not die.

Jeeny folded the paper again, gently, as though it were something sacred. She slid it toward Jack.

Jeeny: “You wrote the truth once. You can do it again.”

Jack: “And if I do?”

Jeeny: “Then you’ll stop surviving and start mattering.”

Jack: (after a long silence) “And if they come for me?”

Jeeny: “Then I’ll be there. And we’ll both be louder than fear.”

Host: The camera would pull back, leaving them framed by the small circle of light in a dark city — two silhouettes against the tide of silence, defying it quietly but completely.

Outside, the storm began to break, thunder fading into a soft drizzle. The lamplight flickered one last time, then steadied — brighter, somehow, than before.

And as the scene faded, John Selden’s words lingered — not as submission, but as challenge —

that in dangerous times,
wisdom often hides behind silence,
but courage steps forward and speaks anyway;

that to say nothing may keep you safe,
but it will never keep you free;

and that history, though written by the survivors,
is always shaped by the speakers —

those who dared to raise their voices
while the world demanded whispers.

For wisdom may be silent,
but truth —
truth must speak.