You'll live. Only the best get killed.

Host: The night was thick with fog over the abandoned airfield — a place long forgotten, where the wind whispered through rusted hangars and torn flags. The moonlight broke in fractured silver shards over the damp runway, where the ghosts of engines seemed to murmur in the dark.

Two figures stood near the wreckage of an old fighter plane, its wings now nothing but bones of iron and memory. Jack, his coat buttoned high, hands shoved deep in his pockets, stared at the horizon — the place where light and loss meet. Jeeny stood a few paces behind, her hair moving with the wind, her eyes searching the sky as though it still held echoes of forgotten courage.

Host: The air smelled of oil, dust, and something older — sacrifice.

Jeeny: “Charles de Gaulle once said, ‘You’ll live. Only the best get killed.’”

Jack: (with a dry laugh) “He would say that. Soldiers’ poetry — brutal and proud.”

Jeeny: “Proud, yes. But not wrong.”

Jack: “Not wrong? So, survival’s a punishment now? You live because you’re not good enough to die?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. You live because someone had to remember. Because living is the hardest duty.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the broken metal nearby. The echo of it filled the empty field, like distant applause from ghosts.

Jack: “That’s easy to say when you’re not the one crawling through the dirt, wondering why it wasn’t you. The dead get glory. The living get guilt.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what de Gaulle meant? That the best — those who shine, who lead, who dare — they burn out fast. And those left behind… they’re the witnesses. The carriers.”

Jack: “Carriers of what? Pain? Memory? Debt?”

Jeeny: “Meaning.”

Jack: “Meaning? You think there’s meaning in being the one left standing after everyone else is gone?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes survival is meaning. The world needs someone to tell the story.”

Host: The moonlight fell over her face, outlining her in a pale halo. She looked almost like one of those old portraits — still, fragile, but burning with something you couldn’t name.

Jack: “You sound like a priest in a cemetery.”

Jeeny: “Maybe cemeteries are where truth still whispers.”

Jack: “No. Cemeteries are where the lies of valor go to rest.”

Host: He kicked at a piece of loose gravel, his boot scraping against the cold runway. A faint metallic ring echoed into the distance.

Jack: “You ever think de Gaulle was just justifying loss? Telling the survivors they were lucky — when in truth, they were cursed?”

Jeeny: “He was telling them to live as if they were worthy of those who died.”

Jack: “And if they’re not?”

Jeeny: “Then they spend the rest of their life trying to be.”

Host: The wind stilled for a moment, as though the air itself were listening.

Jack: “You think you’re honoring the dead by pretending their deaths made sense?”

Jeeny: “Not pretending. Persisting. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Persistence is a luxury, Jeeny. For those who haven’t seen blood dry on their hands.”

Jeeny: “And yet you keep breathing, don’t you? That’s your rebellion — your punishment, your redemption, all in one.”

Host: A plane passed far above — modern, silent, almost ghostly in its precision. Jack’s eyes followed it until it vanished into the night.

Jack: “You ever read about the pilots in World War II? The ones who didn’t come back were heroes. The ones who did — they were broken. They lived long enough to realize the world didn’t change. That’s the cruel joke.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But their survival built what came after. France stood again, didn’t it? Civilization crawled back from fire. Someone had to light the lamps after the heroes burned.”

Jack: “You always romanticize ashes.”

Jeeny: “Because ashes remind me there was once flame.”

Host: Her voice was quiet, but every word landed like a stone on the heart of the silence. Jack’s fists tightened, his knuckles pale under the moon.

Jack: “You ever think survival is just cowardice disguised as fate?”

Jeeny: “Only when survival forgets to serve something.”

Host: For a moment, the world around them seemed to pause — the wind, the night, even the faint hum of the city miles away.

Jeeny: “You know what hurts more than dying, Jack?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “Outliving your purpose.”

Host: His eyes flickered, and for the first time, his voice softened.

Jack: “I think that’s what he meant. De Gaulle. That the best — the ones who live for something larger — are the ones the world takes first. Maybe because the rest of us wouldn’t survive the burden of that kind of fire.”

Jeeny: “Then live as if you were one of them.”

Jack: “That’s a tall order for a man who’s already exhausted.”

Jeeny: “Then rest. But don’t rot.”

Host: A faint smile touched her lips — not of joy, but of defiance. The fog began to lift slightly, revealing the outlines of distant trees, the old watchtower, the forgotten flags clinging weakly to their poles.

Jack: “You really believe in this noble survival?”

Jeeny: “I believe in the duty of the living. The best get killed, yes. But the rest — the flawed, the weary — they get the longer test. The test of carrying on.”

Jack: “And if they fail that test?”

Jeeny: “Then the dead remain unavenged.”

Host: He looked at her, eyes tired, almost broken, then nodded — slow, deliberate.

Jack: “You know, there’s a strange kind of cruelty in hope.”

Jeeny: “There’s also mercy in endurance.”

Host: The moonlight slid down her face, catching a tear she didn’t bother to wipe. Jack reached out, not to comfort, but to acknowledge — a silent alliance of the living.

Jack: “You’ll live,” he whispered, echoing the old general’s words.

Jeeny: “Only because I must.”

Host: The fog began to dissolve into the pale light of approaching dawn. The runway, cracked and overgrown, glimmered faintly — a scar turning to silver under morning.

Host: “And so they stood — two survivors of different wars — in the quiet aftermath of courage. Between them hung the fragile truth of de Gaulle’s words: that the best die quickly because they burn too bright, and those who remain must learn to live with the long, patient weight of remembrance.”

Host: The first light broke over the horizon, cutting through the fog like a promise. The world, indifferent and enduring, began again — and so did they.