That man is prudent who neither hopes nor fears anything from the

Host: The train station lay quiet beneath a bleeding sunset, its metal rails glowing with molten streaks of gold. The evening air was thick with smoke, memory, and the distant whistle of a departing train. Somewhere, a vendor’s bell clanged, sharp and lonely. The crowd was thinning now — a slow drift of faces, suitcases, goodbyes.

Host: Jack stood near the far end of the platform, a small bag at his feet, his grey eyes watching the horizon where the next train would appear. Beside him, Jeeny sat on a bench, sketching absent-mindedly on the back of a ticket. The light played across her face — soft, fleeting, uncertain.

Host: The clock above them ticked loudly, each second a reminder of something passing.

Jack: “Anatole France once said, ‘That man is prudent who neither hopes nor fears anything from the uncertain events of the future.’”

Jeeny: “That’s very… French.”

Jack: “Meaning?”

Jeeny: “Meaning beautifully pessimistic.”

Jack: “No. Meaning realistic. Hope and fear — they’re the same addiction. One feeds your fantasy, the other feeds your dread. Either way, you stop living in the moment.”

Jeeny: “And without them, you stop feeling altogether. Is that what prudence means to you? To amputate emotion so you don’t get hurt?”

Jack: “To control it. To not let tomorrow ruin today.”

Host: A train rolled in slowly, the heavy metal wheels grinding against the track. The smell of diesel filled the air. Jeeny paused her sketching and looked at him, eyes glinting like dark mirrors.

Jeeny: “But what’s the point of being alive if you stop caring about what comes next?”

Jack: “The point is to survive what comes next — whether it’s good or bad. Hope makes you blind. Fear makes you paralyzed. Prudence makes you ready.”

Jeeny: “That’s not prudence, Jack. That’s resignation.”

Jack: “No — that’s wisdom earned from too many disappointments.”

Host: The announcement speakers crackled overhead, their distorted voice echoing across the platform — meaningless words in the rhythm of travel and delay.

Jeeny: “I think you mistake prudence for armor. But armor keeps the world out — even the good parts.”

Jack: “Armor keeps you breathing, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “But breathing isn’t living.”

Host: Her voice was quiet, but it hit him harder than she knew. He looked down at his hands — strong, steady, stained with oil from years of work — the kind of hands that had built things, broken things, and learned to hold nothing too tightly.

Jack: “You know what the future taught me? That it’s deaf. It doesn’t listen to your hopes, and it doesn’t care about your fears. It just happens. So why waste energy trying to predict it?”

Jeeny: “Because belief shapes what happens. You say the future doesn’t listen — maybe it’s just waiting for someone brave enough to talk to it differently.”

Jack: “You think hope changes the world?”

Jeeny: “It changes the person who has it. And that’s enough to start.”

Host: The wind stirred her hair, scattering the edges of her sketch. It was a rough outline — a pair of hands reaching toward something unseen.

Jack: “You sound like a poet who’s never been disappointed.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like a realist who’s never been surprised.”

Host: He smirked, but the expression didn’t last. A train horn wailed in the distance — long, mournful, like a warning that life was already moving.

Jack: “Hope sets you up for heartbreak.”

Jeeny: “Fear sets you up for loneliness.”

Jack: “Maybe solitude is safer.”

Jeeny: “It’s quieter. Not safer.”

Host: The train pulled away, its smoke twisting upward like the ghost of something trying to rise. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The sky dimmed from gold to violet, then to a deep, uncertain blue.

Jeeny: “Do you know what prudence means to me?”

Jack: “Enlighten me.”

Jeeny: “It’s not the absence of emotion. It’s the balance of it. To neither cling to the future nor curse it. To act now with dignity, not detachment.”

Jack: “That sounds like discipline wrapped in poetry.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. But isn’t that what life requires? A bit of poetry to keep us from becoming machines?”

Host: Jack’s gaze softened. The night lights flickered on, glowing weakly against the encroaching dark. Somewhere in the shadows, a beggar sang — off-key, but full of feeling.

Jack: “I used to have hope. Once.”

Jeeny: “What happened?”

Jack: “Reality.”

Jeeny: “And yet, here you are — waiting for a train. You call that prudence. I call it hope in disguise.”

Host: He laughed quietly, shaking his head.

Jack: “You always find a way to make contradictions sound noble.”

Jeeny: “They are noble. Because they’re human.”

Host: The station lights hummed louder now, illuminating the dust like drifting embers. The crowd had thinned to almost nothing. It was just the two of them — two voices arguing beneath a sky full of ancient stars, still burning for no reason except to burn.

Jack: “You think Anatole France was wrong?”

Jeeny: “No. I think he was wounded when he said it. People who lose faith in the future call it prudence because it sounds wiser than grief.”

Jack: “You’re saying prudence is cowardice?”

Jeeny: “I’m saying it’s fear dressed in philosophy.”

Jack: “You’re wrong. Prudence is clarity. It’s standing still while the world panics. It’s refusing to let the dice decide your peace.”

Jeeny: “But if you never throw the dice, Jack — how do you win anything?”

Host: Silence fell. Only the soft shuffle of an old man sweeping the platform interrupted the space between them. The broom’s bristles made a sound like sandpaper on memory.

Jack: “Maybe winning isn’t the goal. Maybe it’s just not losing.”

Jeeny: “You sound tired.”

Jack: “I am.”

Jeeny: “Then rest, not retreat. There’s a difference.”

Host: She stood, walking toward him. The lamplight wrapped around her in soft amber. She looked up at him, eyes deep, steady, and kind.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to fear the future, Jack. But don’t stop hoping for it either. Prudence shouldn’t silence passion.”

Jack: “And passion shouldn’t blind prudence.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the truth is somewhere between us.”

Host: A final train approached, its light piercing the darkness like an eye that saw everything — the past, the future, the fragile balance in between.

Host: Jack picked up his bag. Jeeny closed her sketchbook. They stood side by side, neither leading, neither following.

Jack: “You know, maybe prudence isn’t about killing hope. Maybe it’s about taming it — like fire. Enough to warm you, not burn you.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The train came to a stop. The doors slid open with a sigh.

Jeeny: “So, which one are you boarding with tonight — fear or hope?”

Jack: “Neither. Just courage.”

Jeeny: “That’s a start.”

Host: They stepped onto the train together. Outside, the platform emptied into silence, the night swallowing everything but the faint echo of their voices.

Host: And as the train pulled away, carrying them into the uncertain dark, the station lights shimmered against the rails — two glowing lines stretching endlessly forward, neither fearing nor promising anything.

Host: For once, the future was not something to dread — only something to meet, steadily, prudently, like a traveler with no map but an unshaken will to go on.