I started out really young, when I was four, five, six, writing

Host: The sunset bled through the cracked windows of an old train station, turning the peeling paint into molten gold. The air carried the faint scent of diesel, rust, and the distant hum of evening commuters. Jack sat on a worn bench, a notebook open on his lap, the edges filled with scribbles and half-finished thoughts. Beside him, Jeeny stood by the window, her silhouette framed by the soft light, as though carved out of memory itself.

The station clock ticked above them, indifferent, ancient, like the steady heartbeat of time itself.

Jeeny: (softly, without turning) “Willie Nelson once said he believed in reincarnation — because even as a child, he wrote about things he couldn’t possibly have lived.”

Jack: (glancing up from his notebook) “Yeah, I remember that line. Something about being born already carrying ideas, like they were hand-me-downs from another life.”

Jeeny: (turning toward him) “You don’t believe that?”

Jack: (shrugs) “I believe in memory. In biology. In the way the brain connects dots. A kid who writes about death isn’t channeling a past life — they’re just observant. They see sadness in their parents, in the world. They imagine the rest.”

Host: The train in the distance let out a long, sorrowful whistle, like the echo of a forgotten dream. The light flickered on, harsh and fluorescent, replacing the warm glow of twilight with a cold, sterile white.

Jeeny: “Maybe. But don’t you think some of us come here already… knowing? Like the way a five-year-old can play Mozart, or how a child in India recites poetry from a century ago without ever learning it? There’s something… older at work.”

Jack: (smirking) “Talent and coincidence. Evolution does strange things. A thousand monkeys with typewriters could write Shakespeare if you give them enough time.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “And yet, somehow, they never do.”

Host: A brief silence stretched between them — filled not with distance, but with wonder. The kind that lingers at the edges of skepticism, where logic begins to tremble.

Jeeny: “When Willie Nelson said that, I think he meant that art isn’t learned, it’s remembered. That when he wrote as a child about pain or love or loss, he wasn’t imagining them — he was remembering something his soul had lived before.”

Jack: (leaning back, voice thoughtful) “You make it sound like we’re ghosts recycling each other’s stories.”

Jeeny: “Maybe we are. Every song, every poem, every painting — they’re fragments of one endless story, told again and again through different mouths. Isn’t that what history is? The same truths, just wearing different faces?”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s just DNA. A line of code. Each generation inherits the echoes of the last — fears, instincts, emotions — not through spirit, but through chemistry. You feel what your ancestors felt because their pain carved your neurons.”

Host: The wind swept through the open door, rustling the pages of Jack’s notebook. A paper tore loose and drifted onto the floor, sliding toward Jeeny’s feet. She bent to pick it up — a small poem, written in hurried, crooked handwriting:

“I dreamt I was old / before I was born.”

Jeeny: (reading it softly) “You wrote this?”

Jack: (nods) “When I was a kid. Found it in an old box last week.”

Jeeny: (smiling knowingly) “And you’re telling me you don’t believe in reincarnation?”

Jack: “It’s just imagination. Kids write strange things.”

Jeeny: (stepping closer) “Or maybe it’s the oldest part of you trying to speak — the part that remembers what you’ve been.”

Host: The station lights buzzed faintly. The sky outside had deepened into a bruised purple, stars emerging like timid secrets. The platform was empty now — only their voices, their breaths, their unspoken thoughts lingered.

Jack: “If what you say is true — if we’re all recycled souls — then what’s the point of living again? Why repeat it?”

Jeeny: “To evolve. To refine the message. Maybe each life is an edit — a new verse in the same poem.”

Jack: (chuckles, though not mockingly) “So you think Willie Nelson was just rewriting himself?”

Jeeny: “Yes. And maybe we all are. Every time you write something honest, you’re finishing a sentence your past self never got to complete.”

Host: Jack’s eyes fell back to his notebook, his fingers tracing the ink-stained lines. There was something raw in his silence, something that felt like grief or recognition — the faint ache of remembering what you never lived.

Jack: “But that assumes there’s meaning to all this. That the universe keeps score.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it just loves the sound of its own voice. That’s what art is, isn’t it? The universe talking to itself, pretending to be us.”

Host: The train roared past, rattling the windows, sending a spray of light across their faces. For a moment, they looked like two figures caught in a photograph — motionless amid chaos, suspended between past and future.

Jack: “You sound like those monks who believe every soul is a note in one endless song.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re right. Maybe when Willie wrote those early poems, he was humming his part of the melody — and we’re all just harmonizing with what came before.”

Jack: “Then what about those who never find their melody?”

Jeeny: (quietly) “They still hum. You just can’t always hear it.”

Host: The sound of her words lingered like a gentle echo, soft and haunting. The lights flickered again — once, twice — and then steadied, washing the station in a pale glow that made everything look older than it was.

Jack: “You ever wonder what you were before this? Who you might have been?”

Jeeny: (pausing, eyes far away) “Sometimes. When I was a kid, I used to draw faces I didn’t know. Names I’d never heard. One of them was a woman standing in the rain, holding a book. Years later, I found a painting — from a century ago — same woman, same book. I can’t explain it, but it felt like finding myself in a mirror that belonged to someone else.”

Jack: “Coincidence.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Or memory.”

Host: The sound of another train approached, a distant rumble swelling into a metallic heartbeat. The lights along the platform flickered awake, glowing like stars reclaiming their places in the dark.

Jeeny: “Maybe we’re not meant to understand it, Jack. Maybe belief isn’t about proof — it’s about resonance. You don’t prove a song. You feel it.”

Jack: (looking at her, voice softening) “You make everything sound poetic.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Maybe that’s my old life talking.”

Host: The train slowed to a stop, the doors sliding open with a metallic sigh. Passengers moved past them — shadows of other stories, other lifetimes intersecting briefly before disappearing again.

Jack: (closing his notebook) “Maybe Willie was right. Maybe the ideas come before we do.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “And maybe living is just our way of remembering what we already knew.”

Host: The station grew quiet again as the train pulled away, leaving behind a trail of light and smoke. Jack and Jeeny stood there, watching the last carriage disappear into the dark.

Then, softly, almost imperceptibly, Jack began to hum — a low, unfamiliar tune that somehow felt ancient.

Jeeny closed her eyes, listening.

Jeeny: “I know that song.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, shimmering like dust caught in the glow of the last streetlight. And for the briefest moment, time folded in on itself — past and present, memory and music, one continuous breath of existence.

Somewhere, far beyond the reach of reason, an old melody began again.