I have not lost faith in God. I have moments of anger and

Host: The sun had long since set, and the train station lay wrapped in a blanket of dim light and hollow echoes. The rain had stopped hours ago, but the pavement still glistened under the flickering lamps like liquid memory. A half-empty bench sat near the edge of the platform, and on it — Jack and Jeeny — both wrapped in the silence of midnight.

The announcement speakers crackled occasionally, a voice repeating destinations no one was traveling to. A stray dog wandered nearby, sniffing for warmth or crumbs. The air was thick with the scent of metal, wet stone, and something almost sacred — the kind of stillness that follows a storm.

Jack was staring down the tracks, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets, his eyes empty but aware. Jeeny sat beside him, her face turned toward the sky, her breath visible in the cold.

Jeeny: “Elie Wiesel once said, ‘I have not lost faith in God. I have moments of anger and protest. Sometimes I've been closer to him for that reason.’”
Her voice was soft, but each word carried the weight of a man who had walked through fire and still whispered the name of heaven.

Jack: (a quiet scoff) “Faith and protest. That’s a paradox only a survivor could carry without breaking.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the only kind of faith that’s real — one that survives breaking.”

Host: A distant train horn echoed through the night, long and mournful. Jack didn’t look up. The smoke from a nearby vendor’s cart curled into the air, sweet and bitter at once.

Jack: “You really think anger brings you closer to God? Sounds more like betrayal. Faith’s supposed to be trust, isn’t it? To believe even when the world doesn’t make sense.”

Jeeny: “No. Blind trust is obedience, not faith. Faith is when you question and still stay. When you rage and still reach out.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of coal and rain. Jack’s eyes flickered — something between defiance and sorrow.

Jack: “If God’s real, he doesn’t need our anger. And if he’s not, then all that screaming into the sky is just noise. Either way, I don’t see the point.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’ve never been desperate enough to scream.”

Jack: (turns to her, voice sharper now) “You think pain makes believers? Auschwitz made Wiesel a witness, not a preacher. He didn’t find God — he found silence.”

Jeeny: “And yet he spoke of Him. That silence — that ache — that’s what faith becomes after the world burns. It’s not about finding answers, Jack. It’s about refusing to stop asking.”

Host: A gust of wind swept through the platform, scattering a few papers across the ground. The light overhead buzzed faintly, its glow trembling like a candle before surrendering.

Jack: “You talk like suffering’s some kind of sacred language. Like pain’s a bridge to something divine. But I’ve seen people break, Jeeny. They don’t find God. They find emptiness.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe God is in that emptiness — waiting to be found when everything else is gone.”

Jack: “Or maybe we just build gods out of the rubble because we can’t stand the silence.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even that’s holy in its own way.”

Host: She turned toward him, her eyes dark but glimmering with that strange light of conviction — the kind that comes not from certainty, but from endurance. Jack looked away, as if afraid of what he might see reflected in them.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how anger and love sound the same in the human heart? They both mean you still care. Maybe that’s what Wiesel meant. That even fury can be prayer.”

Jack: “You think shouting at the sky counts as prayer?”

Jeeny: “If the sky is all that’s left to shout at — yes.”

Host: Her words lingered in the air, fragile but unyielding. A pause. The sound of dripping water from a broken pipe marked the seconds. Jack’s shoulders sank slightly, as if the weight of something unseen had settled there.

Jack: “You know, I used to pray as a kid. Every night. Then my mother died. I stopped. I figured if God existed, he had better things to do than listen to one scared boy.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Maybe He listened anyway. Maybe your silence was still heard.”

Jack: “I didn’t want to be heard. I wanted her back.”

Host: His voice cracked slightly — not loud, but raw. The train station seemed to hold its breath. Jeeny didn’t speak right away. Her hand moved slowly, resting near his — not touching, just close enough to feel the heat of shared grief.

Jeeny: “And that’s the protest. The anger Wiesel spoke of. You didn’t lose faith — you just couldn’t forgive Him.”

Jack: “Why should I? Why should anyone forgive a god who lets children die, who watches the world rot and stays silent?”

Jeeny: “Because maybe He weeps too. Because maybe forgiveness isn’t for Him — it’s for us. To keep the wound from becoming our identity.”

Host: The sound of another train roared in the distance, but it didn’t stop. It was just passing through — like memory. The light cut across their faces, and for a moment, the contrast was stark — Jack in shadow, Jeeny in pale reflection.

Jack: “You really believe that, don’t you? That God feels. That He bleeds.”

Jeeny: “I believe the divine isn’t untouched by suffering — it’s revealed by it. Look at the cross, the lotus, the tears of Buddha. Every faith began with someone who hurt enough to ask ‘Why?’”

Jack: “Or maybe it began with someone who couldn’t accept that the universe doesn’t care.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that refusal is the beginning of faith.”

Host: The wind howled softly through the corridor, carrying away the last remnants of smoke. Jack looked at her — really looked — as if seeing her through the veil of all his skepticism.

Jack: “You ever been angry with Him?”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Every day. For the things I’ve lost. For the people I couldn’t save. But sometimes I think He listens most when I shout. Like a parent who lets a child rage, because at least the child’s still speaking.”

Jack: “And when the child stops?”

Jeeny: “Then heaven grows quieter too.”

Host: Her voice trembled, and in that tremor, something like truth moved between them — invisible, undeniable. Jack lowered his gaze, his eyes tracing the rails stretching into darkness, endless and uncertain.

Jack: “Maybe faith isn’t about believing after all. Maybe it’s about arguing with something you can’t quite give up on.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith isn’t peace. It’s tension. The space between doubt and hope — and the courage to live there.”

Host: A single drop of water fell from the roof and landed between them, spreading into a small circle that caught the light. Neither of them spoke. The station clock ticked faintly in the distance, marking a moment that felt suspended between earth and heaven.

Jack: (after a long pause) “So maybe… my silence was faith too.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it always was.”

Host: The lamps flickered once more, the light soft and forgiving. The dog curled near their feet, sighing as if to remind them that the night was still alive. In the distance, a new train approached — slow, steady, gleaming like a silver promise cutting through the dark.

Host: As it drew closer, its light washed over them, illuminating two weary faces — one still angry, the other still believing, both still searching. And in that shared glow, faith and protest, doubt and devotion, all became one — a quiet human heartbeat against the vast, unanswering sky.