I try to make the readers feel they've lived the events of the

Host: The bookstore was closing for the night, but the scent of paper, ink, and quiet emotion still lingered in the air. The rain had begun outside, tapping softly against the glass windows like an afterthought. Between the aisles, light fell in gentle pools from the overhead lamps — small islands of warmth amid the gathering dusk.

Jack sat cross-legged on the wooden floor in the fiction section, surrounded by towers of books. One lay open in his lap — pages creased, the margins smudged with notes and fingerprints of someone who had cared. Jeeny knelt nearby, tracing her finger over a book spine as though reading the names engraved on an old monument.

Jeeny: “George R. R. Martin once said, ‘I try to make the readers feel they’ve lived the events of the book. Just as you grieve if a friend is killed, you should grieve if a fictional character is killed. You should care. If somebody dies and you just go get more popcorn, it’s a superficial experience, isn’t it?’”

Host: Her voice was soft, but her words stirred the air like the slow opening of a wound. Jack looked up, the light from the reading lamp catching the sadness in his eyes.

Jack: “That man knows how to hurt people — and make them thank him for it.”

Jeeny: “Because he’s right. A story that doesn’t make you feel isn’t worth surviving.”

Jack: “But what’s the point of grief over something that isn’t real?”

Jeeny: “That’s the point, Jack. If fiction can make you mourn — even for a moment — it’s done something sacred. It’s proved that empathy doesn’t need evidence.”

Host: The clock behind the counter ticked, its sound steady and human, like the heartbeat of the room. Jack leaned back, running a hand through his hair, his expression caught between wonder and fatigue.

Jack: “You know, I’ve seen people cry harder over a TV death than they ever did at a funeral.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because fiction gives them permission. The page doesn’t judge your tears. Real life often does.”

Jack: “So we use stories to practice grief.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. They teach us how to love something ephemeral — how to let go without forgetting.”

Host: A drop of rain slid down the window, reflecting the city’s blurred lights like a tear caught between worlds.

Jack: “You think that’s what Martin’s really doing? Teaching people to grieve safely?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe he’s just reminding us that love — even for something imagined — still makes us human.”

Jack: “Then why does it hurt so much?”

Jeeny: “Because we recognize the truth in it. The pain is proof that the story became real.”

Host: She picked up a worn copy of A Storm of Swords from the shelf, the cover soft with use. She held it for a moment, then smiled faintly.

Jeeny: “People say he kills characters for shock. But that’s not true. He kills them to remind us that love and loss are inseparable. That you can’t have one without risking the other.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. I just call it cruel.”

Jeeny: “Cruelty without meaning is sadism. But cruelty that reveals truth — that’s art.”

Host: The lights dimmed slightly, signaling the store’s closing time. Yet neither of them moved. The rain had grown heavier now, drumming softly on the glass, a steady rhythm that seemed to sync with their conversation.

Jack: “You ever think we grieve fiction more easily because it’s cleaner? The pain ends when you close the book. Real grief doesn’t give you that mercy.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But even that momentary pain connects us. It trains the heart to care beyond itself. Fictional grief is a rehearsal for compassion.”

Jack: “A rehearsal for being human.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The shopkeeper walked by, turning the “OPEN” sign to “CLOSED,” but didn’t bother them. They looked like part of the scenery — two silhouettes deep in thought, surrounded by thousands of silent lives waiting between pages.

Jack: “You think authors realize what they do to us? How they pull us into something that never existed and make us bleed for it?”

Jeeny: “They do. That’s why they write. Because they know a story only matters if it leaves a bruise.”

Jack: “And Martin leaves more than bruises.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “He leaves reminders. That hope and heartbreak are siblings, not opposites.”

Host: The lamp flickered. The air between them thickened with that strange ache only great stories cause — nostalgia for worlds that never were.

Jack: “You ever mourned a character, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Of course.”

Jack: “Who?”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t matter who. What matters is that I still remember them. That’s the author’s victory — when memory and fiction blur.”

Jack: “I envy that kind of immortality.”

Jeeny: “You mean the kind built on empathy.”

Jack: “The kind built on ache.”

Jeeny: “Same thing.”

Host: She closed the book softly, her fingers lingering on the cover. The rain outside slowed; the sound of the city softened into a hush.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack, when Martin says we should grieve fictional deaths, he’s not talking about tragedy — he’s talking about investment. To love a story so much that its pain becomes yours. That’s the moment fiction crosses into truth.”

Jack: “So a good story doesn’t just entertain.”

Jeeny: “It humanizes.”

Jack: “And a shallow one?”

Jeeny: “It numbs. You don’t feel anything except the emptiness when it’s over.”

Host: The lamplight dimmed lower, casting the room in amber half-light. The last customers had gone. Outside, the street was empty, save for the reflections of neon signs trembling in the puddles.

Jack: “You ever think grief is the price of connection?”

Jeeny: “Always. Real or imagined, you pay with feeling — and that’s the only currency worth anything.”

Jack: “Then maybe we read stories to feel safely alive.”

Jeeny: “Yes. To live a hundred lives and mourn them all. To understand death without dying.”

Host: She smiled, stood, and slid the book back onto the shelf. The quiet sound of paper meeting paper felt final — like a closing prayer.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack — popcorn stories feed distraction. But the ones that break you? They feed your soul.”

Jack: “And Martin’s been feeding souls by starving hearts.”

Jeeny: “That’s his genius.”

Host: They gathered their things, heading for the door. The bell above it chimed faintly as they stepped into the cool night. The rain had stopped; the air smelled of ink and promise.

Jack looked back through the glass at the shelves — endless rows of lives trapped and waiting.

Jack: “You think stories ever grieve for us?”

Jeeny: “No. But they remember us every time someone new opens the first page.”

Host: The wind stirred, carrying with it the faintest whisper of pages turning.

Because George R. R. Martin was right —
to care is to be human,
and to grieve for fiction is to remember
that the imagination is the heart’s last refuge.

And if the story leaves you weeping,
then you didn’t just read it —
you lived it.