Never walk away from failure. On the contrary, study it carefully

Host: The train station smelled faintly of coffee, oil, and rain — a strange trinity of departure. The sound of distant announcements echoed through the high iron arches, voices dissolving into static. The air shimmered with movement — people carrying stories in suitcases, dreams folded between tickets.

Near the end of the platform, Jack and Jeeny sat on a metal bench, watching the rails vanish into the horizon like parallel lines of fate. A single train idled nearby, its engine humming low, a creature half-asleep and waiting.

Between them, a newspaper lay open. The headline read about a company’s collapse — a story of ambition undone. In the margins, Jeeny had scribbled a quote in blue ink:

“Never walk away from failure. On the contrary, study it carefully and imaginatively for its hidden assets.” — Michael Korda

Jack: (reading the note aloud) “Hidden assets in failure, huh? Sounds like something people say when they’re broke.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Or when they’ve learned something the hard way.”

Jack: “Failure’s a scar, not a treasure map.”

Jeeny: “Only if you stop tracing it.”

Jack: “You make pain sound like a syllabus.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every mistake is a lesson written in invisible ink. You just have to hold it under the right light.”

Host: The train doors hissed, steam curling upward into the cool air. A voice over the loudspeaker announced a delay. The passengers groaned, but Jack and Jeeny didn’t move. They seemed oddly at home in the waiting.

The sky outside the glass roof was heavy with grey clouds, their edges glowing faintly like thoughts trying to become understanding.

Jack: “You know, when I failed my first business, people said the same thing — ‘learn from it.’ But no one told me how. You don’t learn from wreckage. You just stand there, counting the pieces that don’t fit anymore.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point. You’re not supposed to rebuild the same structure. You’re supposed to understand why it fell.”

Jack: “Because I trusted the wrong people. Because I moved too fast.”

Jeeny: “Because you believed success was a sprint instead of a craft.”

Jack: “And what was the hidden asset in that, Jeeny? Bankruptcy?”

Jeeny: “Perspective. Empathy. Humility. The things you can’t buy when you’re winning.”

Jack: (quietly) “They don’t pay bills.”

Jeeny: “No, but they teach you how to build something worth more than bills.”

Host: The train’s horn blared, low and mournful. The rain began — slow drops, soft against the glass ceiling. The smell of damp metal filled the air, grounding the scene in melancholy and motion.

Jeeny’s reflection shimmered in the window — doubled, ghostly, yet solid with conviction.

Jack: “You sound like a motivational poster.”

Jeeny: (laughs softly) “You sound like someone afraid to look too closely at their own ashes.”

Jack: “And you sound like someone who’s never burned down.”

Jeeny: (pauses) “I have. Twice. Once in love. Once in purpose.”

Jack: “And you studied the ruins?”

Jeeny: “I didn’t have a choice. When everything’s gone, the only thing left to examine is yourself.”

Jack: “And what did you find?”

Jeeny: “That failure isn’t the opposite of success. It’s the tutor of it. The same way darkness teaches you how to see.”

Jack: “You make it sound beautiful.”

Jeeny: “No. I make it sound necessary.”

Host: The lights flickered as thunder rolled overhead. A soft tremor passed through the station — not fear, just gravity. Jack’s fingers drummed against the bench, restless, rhythmic, like a man resisting introspection.

Outside, the rain streaked the windows, each droplet tracing the invisible lines between collapse and renewal.

Jack: “You know what bothers me most about failure? How permanent it feels in the moment. Like time stops caring about you.”

Jeeny: “That’s because failure freezes your ego. But the soul keeps walking.”

Jack: “And what if the soul’s too tired to move?”

Jeeny: “Then you rest beside the river until it starts whispering again.”

Jack: “You and your metaphors.”

Jeeny: “They’re the only language failure understands.”

Jack: “So, what — you think every loss carries a gift, wrapped in humiliation?”

Jeeny: “Not every loss. But every one you survive does. Because survival itself is an asset.”

Host: The platform emptied slowly as the passengers boarded. A conductor waved, the train began to crawl forward — the metallic groan of motion cutting through the rain.

Jeeny watched it go with quiet reverence, as if departures reminded her of resilience. Jack, meanwhile, stared at the space it left behind — the emptiness where movement had been.

Jack: “You ever notice how people love talking about what failure taught them after they’ve succeeded?”

Jeeny: “Because it’s hard to speak truth from the middle of the storm. Reflection requires distance.”

Jack: “So failure only becomes wisdom in hindsight.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Just like wounds only become scars once they’ve healed.”

Jack: “And some never do.”

Jeeny: “Then they become maps instead — reminders of where not to walk, or where to walk differently.”

Jack: (pauses) “You’re saying even pain has geography.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Korda called them hidden assets. I call them coordinates.”

Jack: “Coordinates to what?”

Jeeny: “To yourself — the version you keep losing every time you chase perfection.”

Host: A gust of wind swept through the station, scattering a few discarded tickets across the platform. One fluttered near their feet, half-soaked in rain, its ink running — a departure time blurred beyond recognition.

Jack bent down, picked it up, and stared at it for a moment. Then he smiled faintly, folding it into his pocket like a keepsake.

Jack: “Maybe failure’s not the end of the story. Maybe it’s just an edit.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s the chapter that teaches you your voice.”

Jack: “And the hidden asset is…?”

Jeeny: “Courage. The kind that doesn’t sound heroic. The kind that wakes up the next morning and says, ‘again.’”

Jack: (quietly) “You really believe failure can be studied like art?”

Jeeny: “It is art — human art. The art of falling gracefully enough to rise beautifully.”

Host: The train station quieted, the air heavy with the smell of rain and steel. The clock ticked above them, its hands moving slow but sure — time forgiving, time forward.

Jeeny stood and looked down the track — the rails glistening like veins of silver running through the dark. Jack stood beside her, both of them watching the endless horizon where rain met light.

Jack: “You know, I used to think failure was punishment.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think it’s feedback.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly what Korda meant — study it imaginatively. Because sometimes the answer’s not in the loss, but in the creativity it forces.”

Jack: “You’re saying failure is innovation’s rehearsal.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Every collapse is an invitation — to reimagine, not retreat.”

Host: The rain began to ease, and the clouds thinned just enough for a faint glimmer of sunlight to break through — soft gold spilling across the wet platform.

The rails caught the light and reflected it outward, stretching far into the distance. For a moment, the world felt reborn in silver and gold — not perfect, but luminous in its resilience.

And as the scene faded, Michael Korda’s words echoed quietly through the stillness of the station —

that failure, when faced with imagination,
is not a grave but a mirror;

that the wise do not walk away from what broke them,
but lean closer,
studying the cracks for light;

for every collapse hides its alchemy —
turning regret into wisdom,
and defeat into the raw material of growth.

And somewhere down the tracks,
a whistle sounded again —
a promise disguised as departure,
a reminder that even after loss,
the journey continues.