Everything changes but change.

Host: The train station was nearly empty, its long arches echoing with the soft hum of late-night departures. The clock hung motionless above the concourse, its hands creeping past midnight. A single bench near platform nine held two figures — Jack, his coat collar turned up against the cold, and Jeeny, her hair falling like ink over her scarf, her eyes distant but alive.

The loudspeaker announced the final call for a train bound north. The words echoed, then dissolved into the air like memory.

Jeeny: “Israel Zangwill once said, ‘Everything changes but change.’ I used to think that meant resignation — that nothing lasts. But tonight, it feels different. It feels like an invitation.”

Jack: “An invitation to what? To chaos? To uncertainty? Sounds more like a curse than a comfort.”

Host: The light from the platform flickered against Jack’s face, casting thin shadows across his grey eyes. A gust of wind carried in the smell of rain and iron — that scent of motion, of things about to leave.

Jeeny: “You don’t see it, do you? Change isn’t chaos, Jack. It’s the only constant rhythm the world knows. The only thing we can trust.”

Jack: “Trust?” he scoffed. “That’s rich. People don’t trust change — they fight it. They build walls, routines, institutions, all to pretend it isn’t coming.”

Jeeny: “And yet it comes anyway.”

Host: Her voice was calm, but her hands trembled faintly on her lap. A train passed in the distance, its wheels shrieking briefly, like time itself grinding forward.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But change breaks people, Jeeny. Look around — jobs vanish, cities crumble, people lose everything they thought was solid. You call that trust? I call it betrayal.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe betrayal is the teacher we refuse to learn from.”

Jack: “Oh, don’t start with your metaphors.”

Jeeny: “I’m serious, Jack. Change doesn’t betray us. We betray ourselves by pretending permanence exists.”

Host: The station clock ticked louder, as if punctuating her words. Jeeny turned toward him, her eyes reflecting the faint neon blue from the vending machine nearby.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was sixteen, my family moved twelve times in six years. Every time I unpacked, I thought — this time will last. But it never did. And I realized… the pain wasn’t in the moving. It was in my refusal to move with it.”

Jack: “That’s easy to say when you have something to move toward. But what about the people who lose — not jobs or homes — but people? Change doesn’t comfort them. It empties them.”

Jeeny: “It empties them so something else can fill the space.”

Jack: “You talk like a monk.”

Jeeny: “Maybe monks just understood impermanence better than we do.”

Host: A brief silence. The announcement system crackled again, distorted by static. “Final boarding call...” echoed down the corridor.

Jack leaned forward, elbows on knees. The steam from his coffee rose and vanished into the cold air — a small, perfect metaphor for everything he refused to name.

Jack: “You think we’re meant to accept it all? The endings, the losses, the decay? Just smile and call it transformation?”

Jeeny: “No. Not smile. But see. See that nothing stays — and that’s the beauty. Life isn’t about holding still; it’s about learning to dance while the floor moves.”

Jack: “That’s poetic nonsense. Stability is what gives meaning to motion. If everything shifts, what anchors us?”

Jeeny: “Presence. Awareness. Maybe even faith.”

Jack: “Faith in what?”

Jeeny: “That change doesn’t erase us — it reshapes us.”

Host: The rain outside began to fall harder now, tiny drops racing down the glass wall of the station, distorting the city lights beyond. Jeeny watched them silently, her breath fogging the pane.

Jeeny: “Look at that. Every drop that falls is different — but the rain itself is the same. That’s what Zangwill meant. Everything changes, but change doesn’t. It’s the eternal pulse beneath all impermanence.”

Jack: “You make it sound romantic. But for most people, change feels like loss.”

Jeeny: “Because they mistake stability for safety. But nothing still is ever truly alive.”

Host: Jack’s eyes narrowed, his thoughts turning inward. He took a slow sip of his drink. The clock ticked again — louder now, almost mocking.

Jack: “You know what scares me about change? It never asks for permission. It takes — youth, certainty, people — and leaves you with questions.”

Jeeny: “That’s what it’s supposed to do.”

Jack: “Supposed to?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Change is the universe’s way of saying, Wake up. Nothing belongs to you, not even this moment. You can fight that truth — or you can walk with it.”

Host: The lights dimmed as another train roared through, wind rattling papers and the hem of Jeeny’s coat. She didn’t flinch. Jack’s eyes followed her — something in her calmness both irritated and comforted him.

Jack: “You always talk like life’s a river. But rivers flood, Jeeny. They drown things.”

Jeeny: “And they carry things too. Maybe it’s not about controlling the current, Jack. Maybe it’s about learning how to float.”

Host: He let out a dry laugh. “You make surrender sound noble.”

Jeeny: “It’s not surrender. It’s grace.”

Host: The word lingered in the air like warmth in the cold. The clock struck one. The terminal was empty now except for them, the cleaning staff, and the sound of wheels rolling over tile somewhere in the distance.

Jack: “You think you’ve made peace with it — with change.”

Jeeny: “I’m trying. Every day. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it frees me. But I’ve stopped pretending it can be avoided.”

Jack: “And what if it takes everything you love?”

Jeeny: “Then I’ll love again. Because love changes too — but that’s what keeps it alive.”

Host: Jack went quiet. His fingers tightened around the cup, the paper crumpling slightly under his grip. He looked out toward the tracks — the rails gleaming, endless, stretching into dark distance.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ve spent half my life fighting the inevitable. Trying to freeze things before they fall apart.”

Jeeny: “We all do. Until we learn that trying to stop change is like trying to hold your breath forever.”

Host: The station lights flickered once more, then steadied. Somewhere far down the platform, a single light moved — a train pulling in, empty and slow. Its reflection danced across the wet marble floor.

Jack exhaled, long and heavy. “So everything changes…”

Jeeny: “But change doesn’t.”

Jack: “Strange kind of stability, isn’t it?”

Jeeny: “The only kind that’s real.”

Host: They sat in silence as the train arrived, its doors hissing open. No one boarded. The sound of the engine filled the emptiness around them, like a long inhale before the next beginning.

Jack: “You ever think that’s why people chase control — because deep down they know nothing lasts?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But what if the point isn’t to hold on — but to hold with grace?”

Host: Jack turned toward her, his expression softer now, his usual sharpness dulled by something like peace.

Jack: “Grace. That’s not a word I hear much in boardrooms.”

Jeeny: “That’s because boardrooms confuse permanence with progress.”

Jack chuckled. “And you — you confuse acceptance with wisdom.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said gently. “I just stopped being afraid of the tide.”

Host: The doors of the train closed again with a sigh. It began to move — slowly, then faster — its rhythmic clatter fading into the distance until the platform was silent once more.

Jack: “So what now?”

Jeeny: “Now we wait. Until the next train. The next season. The next change.”

Host: He nodded. The rain had stopped. The clock ticked on, unhurried, eternal. Outside, the city lights shimmered through the glass — fluid, shifting, alive.

And as they sat there, side by side, watching the reflections dance across the floor, it felt as if the whole world whispered with quiet certainty —

Everything changes but change.

And in that truth, for the first time, neither of them felt afraid.