Words to me were magic. You could say a word and it could conjure

Host:
The bookshop was the kind that felt older than the city around it — tucked between a bakery and an antique store, its windows fogged from the warmth of too many stories breathing inside.
Dust hung in the light like forgotten punctuation, and the air smelled of paper, coffee, and imagination — that strange perfume only words can make.

It was evening. Outside, the street pulsed with modern noise, but here, everything slowed — every whisper, every turn of a page carried weight.

Jack sat at a corner table, surrounded by a small chaos of open books. His fingers were ink-stained, his eyes tired, the kind of tired that only comes from thinking too hard about meaning. Across from him, Jeeny traced her finger along a book spine, reading the titles like they were incantations.

Between them lay a quote written on a torn page, slipped out of an anthology of writers’ reflections:

“Words to me were magic. You could say a word and it could conjure up all kinds of images or feelings or a chilly sensation or whatever. It was amazing to me that words had this power.”
— Amy Tan

Jeeny smiled when she read it. Jack didn’t.

Jeeny: (softly) Don’t you feel that sometimes? The way words can… move things?

Jack: (dryly) Move things? You mean ruin them? Sure. Words do that all the time.

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) Always the pessimist.

Jack: (shrugs) Always the realist.

Jeeny: (gently) Realism isn’t always the opposite of wonder, Jack.

Jack: (grins) Tell that to all the people who’ve been wrecked by what someone said.

Jeeny: (quietly) Or saved by it.

Host: The light from the lamp above their table flickered, trembling slightly as if the room itself was listening. A cat — the shop’s unofficial philosopher — stretched lazily on the counter and blinked in their direction, unimpressed but attentive.

Jack: (leaning back) You know, I never understood people who call words “magic.” They’re just sounds, signs, marks. It’s people who give them meaning, not the other way around.

Jeeny: (softly) That’s exactly the magic, Jack. You take something invisible — breath, vibration — and somehow, it becomes emotion. That’s alchemy.

Jack: (smirks) You make it sound like spellcasting.

Jeeny: (smiling) Isn’t it? A poem’s a spell. A promise is a spell. A lie is a curse.

Jack: (pauses) And silence?

Jeeny: (softly) The space where the spell decides what to become.

Host: The clock ticked somewhere above the shelves, marking the slow rhythm of thought. Jeeny’s voice had that soft conviction that made everything sound true, even the impossible. Jack, though skeptical, was listening more than he wanted to admit.

Jack: (quietly) You really think words hold that much power?

Jeeny: (nodding) More than anything else humans have ever invented. A word can start a war or end one. It can build a world or tear it down.

Jack: (sighs) Or sell you something you don’t need.

Jeeny: (smiles) Even that’s a kind of spell — persuasion.

Jack: (looks up at her) You ever think maybe we made words too powerful? Like we handed them more magic than we could control?

Jeeny: (softly) No. I think words just reveal what was already there — in us. The beauty, the cruelty, the longing. They’re not dangerous on their own. They’re mirrors.

Host: The rain began outside, soft against the window — the kind of rain that sounds like a thousand whispers. The light in the shop glowed warmer, like the words themselves had changed the temperature.

Jack: (quietly) I used to write when I was younger. Thought I could make people feel something. But when I finally showed my stuff, no one cared. Not one person.

Jeeny: (gently) Maybe they did, but they didn’t know how to say it.

Jack: (bitterly) Or maybe my words just didn’t have the magic you’re talking about.

Jeeny: (softly) That’s not how magic works, Jack. It’s not about control. It’s about sincerity. Words don’t need to be perfect — they just need to be honest.

Jack: (looks at her) And what if honesty hurts?

Jeeny: (quietly) Then you’ve done your job as a human being. Words that never risk hurting anyone are just decorations.

Host: A book slipped from the shelf nearby and hit the floor, startling them both. Jeeny laughed softly, breaking the tension, while Jack’s expression softened into something almost vulnerable.

Jack: (half-smiling) You really believe words can change people?

Jeeny: (nodding) They already have. Look at history. Revolutions began with words. So did religions. So do love letters.

Jack: (quietly) And wars.

Jeeny: (gently) Every magic has its dark twin. But the answer isn’t silence — it’s wisdom.

Jack: (pauses) I don’t trust wisdom either. It ages fast.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) Then trust wonder. It never does.

Host: The rain grew heavier, blurring the city beyond the glass. Inside, the bookshop seemed suspended in time — a world made entirely of stories breathing quietly to themselves.

Jeeny: (softly) Amy Tan said it best. Words can conjure. That’s what writers do. That’s what we all do — every time we speak.

Jack: (quietly) You think we’re all magicians then?

Jeeny: (smiling) Involuntary ones. Every time you say something kind, you build a little light in someone else’s world. Every time you speak cruelly, you tear a hole in it.

Jack: (sighs) No wonder everyone’s bleeding.

Jeeny: (softly) Then maybe the world’s waiting for us to learn better spells.

Jack: (after a pause) You think words can heal?

Jeeny: (quietly) They’re the only thing that ever has.

Host: The cat purred, curling near Jeeny’s feet, the sound low and steady — like punctuation at the end of her thought. Jack stared at his notebook, the empty page glowing softly under the lamplight.

Jack: (murmuring) “Words to me were magic.” I used to feel that way too. Before I learned how heavy they could be.

Jeeny: (gently) Maybe that’s what makes them magic — their weight. They’re light until they land.

Jack: (softly) And when they do?

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) They become truth.

Jack: (pauses, then whispers) You think we ever run out of the right ones?

Jeeny: (quietly) Never. Just courage.

Host: The rain eased, soft now, almost shy. The lamplight flickered again, throwing their shadows across the shelves — two figures surrounded by the words of those who’d long ago tried to make sense of being alive.

Jack’s pen hovered over the paper. Then, slowly, he began to write.

Host (closing):
Outside, the streetlights shimmered against puddles, turning the world into reflected fragments of thought. Inside, the sound of a pen scratching on paper filled the air like prayer.

“Words to me were magic. You could say a word and it could conjure up all kinds of images or feelings or a chilly sensation or whatever. It was amazing to me that words had this power.”

And as Jack wrote, and Jeeny watched, something invisible passed between them — not a spell, but an understanding:

that words are the only form of magic we’re all born with —
fragile, dangerous, infinite.

Each one a spark.
Each one a risk.
Each one proof
that the heart, no matter how bruised,
still wants to be understood.

And as the rain finally stopped,
the shop seemed to sigh with them —
as if every book on every shelf
had been quietly waiting for this moment
to believe in words again.