So when I was 13, I basically left home and never returned and

Host: The evening air carried the scent of rain and distant pines. A small train station, almost forgotten by the world, sat between the fields like an old memory left behind. The sky was bruised purple, the last light fading over the rusting tracks. A single bench, a flickering lamp, and the faint hum of an approaching train filled the silence.

Jack sat there, his coat heavy with mist, his eyes distant and grey as the horizon. Jeeny leaned against a column, her arms folded, watching him the way someone watches a flame that could vanish any moment.

The wind carried the smell of iron and wet earth. It was the kind of evening that made people think of what they’d left behind.

Jeeny: “You’ve been quiet since the call. Who was it?”

Jack: (low voice) “My brother. Said the old house is being sold next month.”

Jeeny: “And that bothers you?”

Jack: (shrugs) “No. Not really. I left that place a long time ago.”

Host: He looked away as he said it, his jaw tightening. The lamp above him flickered, its weak light stretching shadows across his face.

Jeeny: “You say that like leaving was an easy thing.”

Jack: “It was the only thing. When I was thirteen, I packed a bag and walked out. Never really lived there again. Just went back for the holidays — like some polite stranger.”

Jeeny: “Thirteen…” (she shakes her head) “That’s a heavy kind of freedom.”

Jack: (half a smile) “Freedom always is.”

Host: A train’s distant whistle broke through the evening — low, mournful, fading like an echo of the past. The rain began to fall, thin and uncertain, tapping softly on the metal roof above them.

Jeeny: “You know, I think about that sometimes — the ones who leave early. The ones who never really go home again. What are they running from?”

Jack: “Not running. Escaping.”

Jeeny: “Is there a difference?”

Jack: “Yeah. Running is when you still believe you can go back. Escaping is when you know you can’t.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes softened. She turned slightly, her reflection flickering in the rain-streaked glass of the ticket counter.

Jeeny: “So what did you escape from, Jack?”

Jack: (after a pause) “Noise. Expectations. My father’s shadow. The idea that who I was supposed to be was already decided.”

Jeeny: “And did you find who you were?”

Jack: (bitter laugh) “Not yet. Still in transit.”

Host: The rain grew steadier now, a soft curtain between them and the wide, sleeping world. The station was almost empty, save for the hum of an old vending machine and the light trembling on wet concrete.

Jeeny: “Peter Jurasik once said something like that — about leaving home at thirteen and never going back. Just returning for Christmas and summers.”

Jack: “Yeah. I’ve heard that quote. Sounds familiar.”

Jeeny: “Do you think that kind of distance ever really ends? Or does it just grow roots somewhere else?”

Jack: “It becomes part of you. Like scar tissue. You stop bleeding, but you never forget where the wound was.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glimmered in the dim light — full of empathy, but also a quiet kind of anger at the world that made such stories possible.

Jeeny: “You always make it sound so final. Like people can’t heal, only harden.”

Jack: “That’s because hardening is how we heal. You can’t walk barefoot through fire and come out soft.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But soft isn’t the opposite of strong.”

Jack: “No. It’s the opposite of safe.”

Host: The train rolled into the station, its metal screech cutting the still air. Its windows glowed pale gold. The doors hissed open, spilling a wave of warmth into the cold evening.

Jeeny: “When you left at thirteen, did you ever look back?”

Jack: “Once. At the end of the street. The house looked smaller than I remembered. Like it was relieved to see me go.”

Jeeny: (softly) “No house is relieved to lose its child, Jack.”

Jack: “Maybe not. But some fathers are.”

Host: The words hung there, raw and heavy, the kind that no rain could wash away. Jeeny’s hand twitched, as if to reach for him, but she didn’t.

Jeeny: “You never told me about him.”

Jack: “He never gave me a story worth telling.”

Jeeny: “Then tell me about you.”

Jack: “I left. I worked. I survived. That’s the story.”

Jeeny: “That’s not a story, Jack. That’s armor.”

Host: The rain poured harder now, blurring the world outside into streaks of silver. A few travelers hurried past, their footsteps echoing like faint heartbeats across the wet tiles.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? I think when people leave home too early, they spend the rest of their lives building it again — piece by piece, in strangers, in lovers, in cities that never quite feel right.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe they stop believing in homes altogether.”

Jeeny: “But you still go back, don’t you? At least once in a while.”

Jack: “Out of guilt, not nostalgia. The rooms look the same, but the air doesn’t. Everything feels… borrowed.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you never really unpacked.”

Host: Jack’s hands tightened around his bag, leather darkened with rain. The faint hum of the train became louder, like a heartbeat pulling him toward the next unknown.

Jack: “Maybe you don’t unpack when you know you’ll have to leave again.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you never stay because you never allow yourself to.”

Jack: “You make it sound like a choice.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t everything?”

Host: A long silence followed. The train’s doors began to close. Jack’s reflection flickered across the wet window, layered over the empty fields beyond.

Jeeny: “Jack, do you ever wonder what might’ve happened if you’d stayed?”

Jack: “All the time. But wondering doesn’t change anything.”

Jeeny: “It changes you.”

Jack: (softly) “Maybe. But only a little. Like a memory brushing against the edge of sleep.”

Host: The rain began to ease, the sky lifting faintly to reveal a sliver of pale moonlight. The lamp above them steadied, no longer flickering.

Jeeny: “So what now? Another station? Another escape?”

Jack: “Another stop. Another version of me trying to make sense of the last one.”

Jeeny: “You keep moving, Jack. But maybe it’s not about leaving anymore. Maybe it’s about learning how to arrive.”

Host: The train let out a long, low whistle, as if agreeing.

Jack looked at her for a long moment, something like sadness and understanding crossing his eyes.

Jack: “You ever think some people just aren’t meant to arrive?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s what makes them human — the trying.”

Host: The doors began to close. Jack hesitated, one hand gripping the rail, the other still holding his bag. The rain had stopped completely now. Only the scent of wet earth remained, fresh and new.

Jeeny: “Wherever you go this time… write. Even if it’s just a few words. Don’t let your story disappear.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe it already has.”

Jeeny: “Then start it again. That’s the gift of leaving — you always have a beginning.”

Host: The train began to move, slow at first, then faster. Jack’s face lingered in the window — a ghost framed in motion, fading into distance. Jeeny stood under the quiet lamp, her eyes following the retreating lights until they became one with the darkness.

She whispered something the wind carried away — maybe his name, maybe a prayer.

And as the night settled once more, the empty station seemed to breathe. The rain returned softly, like memory itself — gentle, persistent, and full of things left unsaid.