I have also just finished three weeks on a soap opera in England.

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving the streets of London glistening like mirrors under the dim orange glow of the streetlights. A thin fog curled around the edges of the cobblestones, whispering echoes of the city’s breath. Inside a small corner pub, the kind that had outlived its own furniture, Jack sat by the window, his reflection fractured by raindrops. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea, watching the steam as if it carried ghosts of old performances.

The television behind the bar hummed softly, playing a rerun of Crossroads — the old British soap opera — its flickering images washing over the walls like memories in motion.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny, Jack? That show’s been brought back after twenty-five years. Just like life itself — everything seems to come back, doesn’t it?”

Jack: “Everything except what really matters. Shows return, brands revive, history repeats — but people don’t. Once they’re gone, they’re gone.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, almost mechanical, like a man who had seen too many scripts written by others. Jeeny smiled faintly, her eyes catching the light of the television.

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not about the people returning, Jack. Maybe it’s about their stories. They live on, even in a soap opera, even through an actor’s lines. Jeremy Bulloch once said he’d just finished three weeks on Crossroads, playing a businessman named David Wheeler. To him, it wasn’t just a job. It was a return to a memory, a kind of resurrection.”

Jack: “A resurrection through television? Please. That’s not life, Jeeny. That’s nostalgia dressed in pixels. People cling to the past because they can’t bear the emptiness of the present.”

Jeeny: “And yet that nostalgia — that longing — keeps art alive. When Crossroads returned, people tuned in not just for the drama, but to feel something familiar. Isn’t that what we all want? A place, a voice, a face that reminds us we’re not completely lost?”

Host: Outside, a bus rumbled past, shaking the windowpane. Jack’s grey eyes followed its reflection — a blur of motion, a metaphor for everything that never really stops.

Jack: “You talk like the past has a pulse. But all those revivals — Crossroads, Doctor Who, even the reboots of old films — they’re proof we’ve run out of imagination. We keep recycling, repainting, pretending it’s new. Creativity’s dead; only the packaging changes.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe creativity has evolved. You call it recycling; I call it remembering. The Greeks retold the same myths for centuries. Shakespeare borrowed plots. We’re all just rewriting what it means to be human, again and again. Isn’t that what you do every time you start over?”

Jack: “Starting over isn’t repeating. It’s survival. You burn the bridge, not walk it twice.”

Jeeny: “And yet, every bridge you burn leaves ashes that cling to your shoes. You carry them whether you like it or not.”

Host: The room grew quieter. The bartender wiped down the counter, the clink of glasses marking time. Jeeny’s words hung between them like smoke from a candle half extinguished.

Jack: “You’re romanticizing repetition. It’s a trap, Jeeny. Look at the people who live in those soap operas — not the actors, but the viewers. They build their lives around fiction, around the illusion that something continues. They forget to live their own stories.”

Jeeny: “And you think you’re any different? You live in cynicism, Jack. That’s your soap opera — rerunning the same scene of disbelief over and over. You say you don’t believe in return, but you can’t stop talking about it. Maybe you’re the one who can’t move on.”

Host: A pause. The rain began again, tapping the glass like a slow heartbeat. Jack looked down, his hands tightening around his glass of whisky.

Jack: “You think there’s virtue in sentimentality. But life isn’t written by scriptwriters or softened by background music. When Jeremy Bulloch returned to that show after decades, it wasn’t destiny — it was a paycheck. Art doesn’t bring back meaning. It just imitates it.”

Jeeny: “And yet you’re quoting him, Jack. You remember the name, the role, the line. Maybe you felt something, even if you deny it.”

Jack: “I felt the absurdity of it. A man revisiting a ghost of his career. That’s not art — that’s haunting yourself.”

Jeeny: “Maybe haunting is the closest thing we have to immortality. Maybe the ghosts we create — through film, through memory, through repetition — are the only proof we ever existed.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, though her eyes stayed steady. Jack looked at her — really looked — and for a moment, his defenses flickered. The television played a scene from Crossroads: a man in a suit standing in an empty hotel, his voice echoing across an empty lobby.

Jack: “You know, there’s something cruel in that thought. That we live just to be remembered. It’s not enough. People shouldn’t exist for others’ nostalgia.”

Jeeny: “No, but they do. And that’s beautiful. Every memory is a kind of audience. Every echo a form of applause.”

Jack: “You really think being remembered is better than being real?”

Jeeny: “Being remembered is being real. Because once we’re gone, that’s all that’s left — the reflection we leave behind. Like that actor on the screen, like the rain on the window. You call it illusion; I call it continuation.”

Host: The lights in the pub dimmed slightly. The flicker of the TV cast shadows across Jack’s face, half-lit, half-lost.

Jack: “Continuation. You mean repetition of decay.”

Jeeny: “No. Continuation of presence. Think of the Mona Lisa. Da Vinci’s gone, but his gaze remains. Or think of the Beatles — John Lennon’s voice still plays every day, and people who never met him feel they know him. Isn’t that life after life?”

Jack: “Those are exceptions, Jeeny. For most people, the world forgets. There’s no audience for their return.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s not about the world remembering us, but about us remembering the world. Maybe that’s what Jeremy meant when he spoke of playing David Wheeler — that returning to a role wasn’t about fame, but about reconnection. Re-living a truth, however small.”

Host: Jeeny’s words softened, carrying a weight that made the air itself still. Jack leaned back, staring through the window, where the fog had thickened again.

Jack: “So you think art can reconnect us with who we were?”

Jeeny: “Yes. And with who we could still become.”

Jack: “And what if the past is better left buried?”

Jeeny: “Then at least let it teach us how to live.”

Host: A moment of silence. Only the sound of rain, steady now, like a metronome for memory.

Jack: “You always manage to turn ghosts into teachers.”

Jeeny: “And you always try to silence them.”

Jack: “Maybe because I’m afraid they’ll tell the truth.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s the point. Every revival, every rerun, every remembered name — it’s all part of our confession to time. We can’t escape what shaped us.”

Host: Jack let out a low laugh, though it sounded more like surrender than humor. He looked at the television again — the actor on screen was smiling, frozen in a moment of scripted certainty.

Jack: “You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about the return. Maybe it’s about the act of returning — the courage to face what we’ve been. Like stepping back into a dream and realizing it’s still yours.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We’re all actors revisiting old roles. Life isn’t linear, Jack. It’s circular. We don’t end; we echo.”

Host: The clock above the bar ticked past midnight. The bartender switched off the TV; the room fell into quiet shadow.

Jeeny finished her tea, her hands still around the warm cup, as if holding the past itself.

Jack stood, placed a few coins on the table, and looked at her one last time.

Jack: “Maybe next time, I’ll let the ghosts talk.”

Jeeny: “They’ve been waiting for you.”

Host: As they stepped out into the night, the rain had stopped once more. A faint mist hung in the air, catching the light from a passing car like fragments of an old film reel. In that soft, silver silence, the world felt momentarily rewritten — not as a rerun, but as a continuation.

And somewhere, behind the clouds, the past exhaled — softly, endlessly, alive.