I always spend time exploring the customs and attitudes of the

Host: The dusk settled over the train station like a velvet curtain, soft and full of old memories. The last commuter trains groaned in the distance, their iron wheels cutting the air with tired precision. Inside the station’s narrow café, the air smelled of burnt espresso and damp wool coats. The floor gleamed from the day’s rain, reflecting the fading neon signs of arrival and departure.

Host: Jack sat near the window, his suitcase beside him—a scarred, loyal thing. His grey eyes were restless, always scanning, as if even stillness might betray him. Across from him sat Jeeny, her small hands wrapped around a cup of tea, the steam rising like breath from another world.

Host: Between them lay a crumpled travel brochure and a quote scribbled on a ticket stub, the ink still wet, the meaning even wetter:
"I always spend time exploring the customs and attitudes of the countries I'm using for locations, and interviewing the people who live there. I've visited over 90 countries thus far." — Sidney Sheldon.

Host: The station clock ticked above them—slow, deliberate, like the rhythm of a story being told across continents.

Jack: (leaning back) Ninety countries. Ninety customs. Ninety different ways to dress up the same chaos.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) Or ninety ways to see humanity differently, Jack. Depends on what you’re looking for.

Jack: (scoffing) Humanity doesn’t change. Just the costumes. You visit enough countries, and you start seeing the same play—just with different accents.

Jeeny: (tilting her head) You sound like a man who’s traveled too far to see anymore.

Jack: (dryly) Or maybe I’ve seen too much to pretend it’s all beautiful.

Host: A train howled past outside, its light slicing through the café’s glass, then vanishing. The sound left a hollow echo, like a memory that refused to settle. Jeeny’s eyes followed it, thoughtful, patient.

Jeeny: I think Sheldon meant something else. He wasn’t collecting places, Jack. He was collecting souls. You can’t write truth if you don’t taste how people live it.

Jack: Souls? (chuckles) You make it sound holy. Writers like him don’t chase souls—they chase material. Local flavor. You interview the people, get a few exotic quotes, then leave. That’s not understanding—that’s consumption.

Jeeny: (quietly) Maybe. But isn’t that still a bridge? Even if imperfect?

Jack: A bridge to where? We tourists build bridges out of curiosity, not compassion. We want their stories, not their struggles.

Jeeny: That’s unfair. Curiosity can become compassion.

Jack: (coldly) Not when you leave before sunrise.

Host: The rain began again, tapping the window like fingers of someone too polite to knock. Jeeny took a slow sip, her brows furrowed, her mind somewhere between defense and understanding.

Jeeny: You sound angry at travelers. Or maybe at yourself.

Jack: (looking out the window) I used to travel for work. Construction contracts—Dubai, Jakarta, Lagos. I watched men sweat in forty-degree heat for wages that wouldn’t buy my shoes. And every evening, the foreigners drank gin and called it “cultural experience.”

Jeeny: (softly) And did you ever speak to those men?

Jack: Once. I shared a cigarette with one. His name was Rahim. Told me he hadn’t seen his family in four years. I promised I’d send him some photos when I went back to England. I never did.

Jeeny: (after a pause) And you think that makes you part of the problem.

Jack: (shrugs) Doesn’t it? I walked through his story, then left. Just like Sheldon’s quote—“interview the people who live there.” You take their truth and make it your art, or your paycheck.

Jeeny: (earnestly) But maybe telling their stories is a kind of justice. Maybe someone has to witness.

Jack: Witness without responsibility? That’s voyeurism, Jeeny. The world doesn’t need more observers. It needs participants.

Host: His voice had sharpened, each word cutting through the dim café air like shards of glass. Jeeny met his gaze, unwavering.

Jeeny: And yet, without observers, the silent stay invisible. Think of George Orwell. He lived among the poor in Down and Out in Paris and London. He wasn’t exploiting them—he was learning how the system forgot them.

Jack: (leaning in) Orwell suffered with them. That’s different. Sheldon wasn’t sleeping in the streets of Delhi. He was researching for a plot twist.

Jeeny: (defensive) But he cared enough to look! Do you know how many people don’t even try to understand other cultures? He gave those places visibility. Maybe imperfectly, but visibility still.

Host: The lights above flickered, casting their faces in shifting amber. The station grew quieter as the last departures cleared. Only the rain and their voices remained, locked in that fragile space between anger and yearning.

Jack: (low voice) You think curiosity is noble. I think it’s hungry. Always hungry. It wants to possess what it sees.

Jeeny: (gently) Then why do you travel, Jack?

Jack: Because standing still feels like dying.

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) And yet, you say movement is hunger.

Jack: (pauses) Maybe I move to forget what I took.

Host: A deep silence. The kind that lives longer than words. The clock ticked louder now, as if marking something sacred—time itself listening.

Jeeny: You know, when I traveled to Morocco, I met a woman in Chefchaouen. She painted tiles for tourists, every day, same blue patterns. I asked her why she never tired of repeating them. She said, “Because every stranger who looks at my tiles takes a bit of me home.”

Jack: (scoffs) Sounds romantic.

Jeeny: (firmly) It was romantic. But it was also true. Maybe that’s what Sheldon did—leave fragments of people inside his stories, so they wouldn’t be forgotten.

Jack: (thoughtful) Or maybe he just painted their lives in the wrong color.

Jeeny: (whispers) Maybe both.

Host: The rain slowed to a whisper, like applause fading after a concert. Jack’s expression softened, the edge of his cynicism cracking just slightly.

Jack: So, what—understanding comes from talking to enough strangers? Ninety countries later, you find empathy?

Jeeny: Not empathy. Perspective. Empathy comes when you stop counting.

Jack: (chuckles quietly) That’s good. You should write that down.

Jeeny: (smiling) Maybe I already did.

Host: She pulled the ticket stub closer, turning it between her fingers, the ink now smeared by condensation.

Jeeny: He wasn’t bragging about the number, Jack. He was confessing the search. Ninety countries, and still—he was looking.

Jack: (softly) Looking for what?

Jeeny: For the same thing we all are. A mirror that doesn’t lie.

Host: The train station speakers crackled to life, announcing a final departure. The sound filled the room like a closing scene. Jack stood, grabbing his coat, his face lit faintly by the red sign overhead: Platform 9 — Last Call.

Jeeny: Where are you headed this time?

Jack: (smiling) Somewhere I haven’t yet misunderstood.

Jeeny: (quietly) Then remember to listen before you look.

Host: He paused at the door, the raincoat draped over his arm, the steam from his breath mixing with the cold air.

Jack: You think I’m still capable of that? Listening?

Jeeny: Everyone is. Even cynics. Especially cynics.

Host: A faint smile crossed his lips, almost imperceptible. He turned and walked toward the platform, his figure dissolving into the dim light beyond the glass. Jeeny stayed behind, watching his reflection disappear.

Host: The café clock struck nine. The rain stopped. On the table, the ticket stub remained—a small relic of conversation, half truth, half longing. The ink had bled enough that only a few words remained clear: exploring… people… live there.

Host: And for a brief, flickering moment, it felt as if the whole world was whispering those same three words—quietly, endlessly—just beneath the hum of departing trains.