Anger is a wind which blows out the lamp of the mind.

Host: The storm had rolled in quietly, but when it came, it came with force — the kind that made the windows rattle and the trees bow like they were begging forgiveness. Inside a small attic apartment, the world felt suspended between thunder and thought.

The room was dim, lit only by a single oil lamp that flickered with the rhythm of the wind. Books lay scattered across the floorboards, their pages curling with age, and beside the window sat Jack, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, his face hidden in his hands.

Across from him, on an old armchair, Jeeny sat quietly, her eyes steady, her posture still, as if her calmness itself was an anchor against the storm.

Between them, on the small table by the lamp, a folded piece of paper bore the evening’s quote, written in neat, deliberate ink: