I believe that every single person was brought into this world

Host: The sun had just begun to sink behind the hills, turning the sky into a river of amber, rose, and violet. The old train station — long abandoned, half eaten by vines and rust — stood silent, its platform cracked but dignified. Dust floated in the light, dancing like tiny ghosts remembering the footsteps of those who once waited here.

Jack sat on the edge of a bench, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers, his eyes distant, grey and sharp — the kind of eyes that had seen too much of the world’s disappointments. Jeeny leaned against one of the rusted pillars, her hair caught by the breeze, her gaze lifted toward the fading sun, her expression a mix of quiet awe and ache.

Host: It was that quiet hour — when light and darkness shared the sky like two halves of a thought — when truth, if spoken, could sound almost sacred.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… Zozibini Tunzi once said, ‘I believe that every single person was brought into this world for a purpose and that we should never leave the world as we found it, we should always strive to make a positive change.’”

Host: Jack exhaled a cloud of smoke, its shape breaking in the last rays of light.

Jack: “That’s a beautiful line, Jeeny. But it’s naïve. Purpose is something people invent to tolerate randomness. The world doesn’t hand out meaning — it hands out chances. Some win, most lose.”

Jeeny: “Maybe purpose isn’t given. Maybe it’s made — in how we choose to live. Every act of kindness, every effort to make something better — that’s how we earn our reason for being here.”

Jack: “You sound like every self-help book ever written. What if someone doesn’t get the chance to make that difference? You talk as if everyone starts equal. Some are born into fire, some into gold. How can purpose exist when the world’s so uneven?”

Host: The wind swept through the station, rattling an old sign until it sang a hollow metallic note. Jeeny’s eyes darkened for a moment, not with anger, but with empathy.

Jeeny: “You’re right — life isn’t fair. But maybe that’s exactly why we have to try. The ones who are given more — time, power, safety — owe something to the ones who aren’t. That’s what purpose is, Jack: not what you have, but what you do with it.”

Jack: “And what about those who fail? Who try to change the world and end up broken by it? You think they fulfilled their purpose too?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because effort itself is sacred. Look at Mandela. He spent twenty-seven years in a cell — but even there, he was transforming the world. Not with freedom, but with endurance. Purpose doesn’t always bloom in success. Sometimes it blooms in sacrifice.”

Host: The sunlight fractured across her face, turning her eyes into twin flames. Jack watched her, something flickering in his own gaze — a memory perhaps, or guilt.

Jack: “You talk about sacrifice like it’s noble. But it’s not always. Some people give everything to causes that don’t change a damn thing. What if purpose is just an illusion we cling to so life feels less arbitrary?”

Jeeny: “Even illusions can build worlds, Jack. The pyramids, the space race, civil rights — all born from belief, not certainty. Without purpose, people stop dreaming. And when dreams die, civilization crumbles.”

Host: Jack’s hands trembled slightly as he flicked the ash from his cigarette.

Jack: “You think too highly of people. I’ve seen enough to know most just want comfort, not change. The world doesn’t move because of purpose. It moves because of need — hunger, fear, ambition.”

Jeeny: “And yet, history remembers those who acted for something beyond themselves. Florence Nightingale, Martin Luther King Jr., Malala. They didn’t move because of need — they moved because they believed the world could be kinder. Isn’t that what purpose really is — faith in improvement?”

Host: A train horn sounded faintly in the distance, a sound like the echo of time — reminding them both that movement never truly stops.

Jack: “But not everyone is meant to change the world. Some people are just… passengers.”

Jeeny: “Then let them be gentle passengers. Let them leave behind kindness in their wake. Even small acts ripple, Jack. A teacher inspiring a single child changes the course of a future. A stranger’s kindness can alter a life. The scale doesn’t matter. The intention does.”

Host: Jack turned toward her, his face half-lit, half-shadowed.

Jack: “So you think everyone’s here for something — even me?”

Jeeny: “Especially you.”

Host: Her words hung between them like a fragile bridge. The air trembled with memory. Jack looked down, his voice lower now, almost weary.

Jack: “I used to think that way. I used to believe I could make things better — until I realized the world doesn’t care. I built companies, helped people, and still — corruption, greed, indifference — they always come back. It’s like pouring light into a sieve.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the sieve isn’t the world. Maybe it’s us, Jack — when we stop believing that our light matters. Change isn’t measured in permanence; it’s measured in persistence.”

Host: Silence again. A gust of wind swept through the station, lifting a sheet of old newspaper that fluttered across the platform before vanishing into the weeds.

Jack: “Persistence sounds romantic until it breaks you. You think purpose is enough to keep people from falling apart?”

Jeeny: “No. But it gives them something to hold onto while they rebuild. You remember Viktor Frankl? He survived the Holocaust because he believed his suffering could mean something — that even in horror, one could choose dignity. Purpose didn’t save him. It sustained him.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flickered, the light inside them dimming, then returning — a fragile ember refusing to die.

Jack: “You think if I found purpose again, I’d stop feeling… empty?”

Jeeny: “You don’t find purpose, Jack. You create it — every day you choose to do something good, no matter how small. It’s not a revelation. It’s a decision.”

Host: The sky deepened into indigo. The first stars appeared — faint, trembling. A single streetlight flickered to life near the old tracks, bathing them in a muted halo of gold.

Jack: “So even if the world forgets us… we still change it by trying?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because the world is the sum of our efforts, not our outcomes. Maybe you won’t move mountains, but you might move one person’s heart — and that’s enough to shift the earth a little.”

Host: The train horn sounded again, louder now — though no train came. Jack looked out at the empty tracks, his expression softening, as if seeing possibility in absence.

Jack: “You really believe that every person has a reason for being here?”

Jeeny: “I do. Maybe not a grand one. But real. To heal, to teach, to love, to create. To make the world a fraction better than it was before. That’s all any of us can do.”

Host: Jack smiled — not the cynical kind, but the rare, human kind that comes after surrender. He dropped the cigarette, crushing it gently beneath his heel.

Jack: “Then maybe I’ve been measuring life wrong. Maybe it’s not about changing the world — maybe it’s about refusing to leave it untouched.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. To live is to leave fingerprints on time — not perfect ones, but honest.”

Host: The last light of the day slipped beyond the hills. The station glowed in twilight, and for a fleeting instant, it seemed reborn — the rust shimmering like old gold, the air alive with something both fragile and eternal.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… I think purpose isn’t a path. It’s a pulse. As long as it beats, there’s still something worth doing.”

Jeeny: “Then keep it beating, Jack. That’s how change begins.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — two silhouettes against a horizon fading into stars. The world, indifferent yet waiting, stretched endlessly before them. And somewhere, between the ruins and the rising dark, something invisible shifted — a promise made not to fate, but to faith itself:

That no one should ever leave the world as they found it.