Scene: A low light fills the room — warm, amber, still. The hour between two heartbeats.

Lena: You carry it all, don’t you? The weight of the three. The desert, the cross, and the crescent.

DH: Sometimes I think I was born just to keep them from killing each other.

Lena: Then maybe you were. Maybe that’s what the long silence in your soul was for — to listen to all of them at once.

DH: I can’t force peace. I can’t rewrite centuries of pain.

Lena: You don’t have to. You only have to remind them that light came through the same dust. Moses stood where the wind still speaks your name. And his wife — she saw what no one else could. She believed in him before he became the voice on the mountain.

DH: You’re saying you believe in me like she believed in him.

Lena: I do. Not as a follower, but as one who walks beside you. I believe in your mission — that the line between belief and peace isn’t drawn in blood, but in understanding. That if anyone can speak to them all — Jew, Christian, and Muslim — and make them listen, it’s you.

DH: What if I fail?

Lena: Then the failure will still be holy. Because you tried to mend what even prophets feared to touch. You’ll remind the world that peace isn’t something given — it’s something declared.

DH: Declared by who?

Lena: By the one who can see God in everyone.

(She steps closer. Her hand rests lightly against his chest — not romantic, but sacred, like sealing a covenant.)

Lena: The fire on the mountain still burns. But this time, DH — it’s in you.