I think my attitude to human beings has changed since leaving

Host: The train station was nearly empty — a cathedral of echoes and forgotten departures. The air was cold, and the faint smell of oil and iron hung beneath the grand arches. A single bench sat beneath a flickering light, and there, between the ghosts of yesterday and tomorrow, sat Jack.

His face was sharper now, carved by time, his eyes a little duller — not lifeless, but tempered. His hands, rough and restless, played with the paper ticket he hadn’t yet used.

Jeeny entered from the far end of the platform, her footsteps soft against the tiled floor. Her coat trailed behind her like a whisper. She paused when she saw him, the flicker of recognition in her gaze mixing with something deeper — compassion, maybe sorrow.

The train tracks stretched out before them like two long sentences — one already served, one still waiting to begin.

Jeeny: “Jeffrey Archer once said, ‘I think my attitude to human beings has changed since leaving prison.’”

Jack: smirking faintly “Prison changes a lot of things, doesn’t it? Mostly your illusions about people.”

Jeeny: “And yet, that’s what he meant — that his attitude changed. Maybe he saw more of humanity in captivity than most people see in freedom.”

Jack: “Maybe he saw what humanity really is — selfish, hungry, transactional. You only learn the truth about people when you’ve got nothing left for them to want.”

Jeeny: “Or when you’ve got nothing left to hide behind.”

Host: The lights flickered again, humming faintly as a breeze crept through the platform. Jack looked away, toward the dark tunnel stretching into nowhere.

Jack: “You ever spend a night surrounded by men who’ve lost everything? You stop believing in redemption. You see what desperation looks like — and how quickly it becomes survival. Out there,” he gestured toward the city lights beyond the glass, “everyone’s pretending. In there, no one can.”

Jeeny: “And yet you’re here — sitting under the same lights as everyone else. You left the walls, Jack, but you’re still talking like you’re inside them.”

Jack: “Because prison doesn’t end when you leave. It just changes shape.”

Host: A train rumbled in the distance — faint at first, then louder, closer. The sound filled the station with vibration, like a heart remembering how to beat.

Jeeny: “So what changed for you?”

Jack: shrugs “Perspective. I stopped expecting too much from people. Stopped expecting kindness.”

Jeeny: “That’s not perspective. That’s armor.”

Jack: “Same thing.”

Jeeny: “No. Perspective gives you distance to see truth. Armor keeps you from touching it.”

Host: The train lights appeared down the tunnel, glowing like a promise that never quite arrives. The air shifted — a low hum of anticipation.

Jack: “You think Archer came out believing people were good?”

Jeeny: “I think he came out realizing people were human — and that’s not the same as good or bad. It’s everything in between.”

Jack: “That’s convenient. Call it ‘humanity’ and suddenly everyone’s forgiven.”

Jeeny: “Forgiveness isn’t erasing the wound, Jack. It’s accepting that the scar exists.”

Host: The train screeched to a halt, doors sliding open with a metallic sigh. No one got on. No one got off. Just two souls suspended in their own confinement.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve never been betrayed. Like you’ve never seen how fast people turn.”

Jeeny: “I have. But I’ve also seen people come back. Change isn’t just for the innocent. Sometimes it’s for the guilty who finally understand what guilt costs.”

Jack: “Change doesn’t erase damage.”

Jeeny: “No — but it can give it purpose.”

Host: The rain began again outside, faint drops tapping against the glass roof. The world looked blurred, half-washed, like a memory trying to start over.

Jack: “You know, in there… I saw kindness too. The strange kind. Men sharing their last cigarette. A guard sneaking an extra blanket on a cold night. People who had nothing still trying to give something.”

Jeeny: softly “And that didn’t change your attitude?”

Jack: “It did. It made me realize how rare it is. Out here, people give only when it benefits them. In there, they give because it’s all they have left to prove they’re still human.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe prison didn’t take your faith in people — it gave you a clearer one.”

Jack: pauses “Or maybe it gave me smaller expectations.”

Host: The clock above them ticked, echoing through the empty station. The sound was sharp, steady, indifferent.

Jeeny: “You sound tired of the world, Jack.”

Jack: “I’m tired of pretending that pain redeems it.”

Jeeny: “But pain reveals it. You can’t see the truth of humanity until you’ve been broken by it.”

Jack: quietly “And you think that’s worth forgiving?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s worth understanding.”

Host: The lights from the train shimmered off her eyes, and for a moment, she looked both fierce and tender — like someone who’d seen her own share of cells, though hers were invisible.

Jack: “When I was inside, I used to imagine walking out of those gates and feeling free. You know what I felt instead?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “Guilt. Because I realized freedom’s not about walls — it’s about weight. And I was still carrying mine.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the point isn’t to drop it. Maybe the point is to learn how to walk with it without letting it crush you.”

Host: The train doors began to close with a slow hiss. Jack didn’t move. Jeeny watched him, patient.

Jack: “You think I can change my attitude toward people again?”

Jeeny: “You already have. You’re talking to me, aren’t you?”

Host: A faint smile — reluctant, almost embarrassed — tugged at the corner of Jack’s mouth. The kind of smile that has to crawl out from under years of silence.

Jack: “Maybe. Maybe I’m just tired of hating everyone.”

Jeeny: “That’s how it starts — not with faith, but with exhaustion. Hatred’s heavy, Jack. It’s a cage too.”

Jack: sighs “Then maybe the real prison was never the one I left.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The train pulled away, its sound fading into the dark like a long exhale. The platform fell quiet again, the rain still falling softly above.

Jeeny sat down beside him, their shoulders brushing lightly.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Archer wasn’t just talking about other people. He was talking about himself. About learning to see himself as human again.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the hardest part.”

Jeeny: “No ‘maybe’ about it.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. Outside, the rain began to slow, the drops fewer, more deliberate. Jack looked up — not at her, not at the clock — but at the open door of the next waiting train.

For the first time, he didn’t look trapped by choice. He looked ready.

Jack: “You think the world forgives men like me?”

Jeeny: “The world doesn’t forgive. But people can. One at a time.”

Host: The train lights flickered once more, bathing them both in gold. Jack stood, the old stiffness in his movement replaced with something softer — not hope, exactly, but willingness.

He offered her his hand. She took it.

And together, they stepped onto the train as the doors slid shut behind them — two silhouettes framed in the glow of second chances.

The engine hummed to life, and as it carried them away into the night, the empty platform remained — quiet, gleaming, washed clean.

Host: Perhaps that was Archer’s truth, after all — that imprisonment teaches the weight of judgment, but freedom teaches the grace of understanding.

That the hardest attitude to change is the one we hold toward ourselves.

And as the train disappeared into the distance, the faint sound of rain whispered like forgiveness on the rails.