There is always time for failure.

Host: The rain had stopped just before dawn, leaving the streets slick and silver beneath the bruised sky. The city was waking — slowly, reluctantly — to the hum of buses, the hiss of tires, and the first scent of coffee drifting from corner cafés.

But inside the old train station, time had its own pace. The clock above the platform had stopped at 3:17 — years ago, by the look of it. Paint peeled from the columns, and pigeons cooed from the rafters like the ghosts of travelers who never caught their trains.

Jack sat on a wooden bench, suitcase by his side, coat collar turned up. His face was pale, shadowed by the kind of fatigue that doesn’t come from sleep, but from trying too long to prove something. He was staring at nothing in particular — the tiled floor, maybe, or the reflection of the past in the glass.

Jeeny entered quietly, her boots echoing against the stone. She carried two paper cups, steam curling up from both. She stopped beside him, handed one over, and sat down.

Jeeny: “You look like you missed your train.”

Jack: “Maybe I did. Or maybe it left early.”

Jeeny: “Trains don’t leave early. People just arrive late.”

Jack: “Then I’m late for my own life.”

Jeeny: “You’re dramatic.”

Jack: “I’m tired.”

Jeeny: “You’re human.”

Jack: “John Mortimer once said, ‘There is always time for failure.’ I guess he meant this exact moment.”

Jeeny: “He meant the opposite.”

Jack: “No, he didn’t. Look around. The world’s full of people running late, watching doors close, pretending they’re okay with missing them.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s the point — that failure’s part of the schedule.”

Host: The station seemed to listen — its silence deep, its emptiness vast but not unfriendly. A soft wind rattled through the broken pane above them.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. Failure’s not poetry. It’s noise — a car crash in slow motion.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Failure’s rehearsal.”

Jack: “For what?”

Jeeny: “For the next attempt. You think success happens in a straight line? No. It loops. It limps. It doubles back. But it moves.”

Jack: “Sometimes it just stops.”

Jeeny: “Then that’s where you breathe.”

Jack: “Breathe?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Rest isn’t quitting. Even failure needs reflection.”

Host: The coffee steam rose between them like a fragile veil. A distant train whistled, its call low and melancholy.

Jack: “You ever fail so hard that even breathing feels like theft?”

Jeeny: “All the time.”

Jack: “And you still get up?”

Jeeny: “Every time. Because failure isn’t the opposite of success. It’s the raw material.”

Jack: “You make it sound noble.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s ugly. But it’s honest. And honest things always find their way home.”

Jack: “You think failure leads home?”

Jeeny: “Eventually. If you’re brave enough to follow it.”

Host: A faint light began to seep through the cracked glass of the station roof, painting the benches in soft gold. Dust motes danced in it, like fragments of yesterday caught between breaths.

Jack: “You know what I hate? How people glorify failure. Like it’s a badge of character. They don’t see what it really is — a mirror that won’t lie.”

Jeeny: “And that’s why it matters. Because truth never flatters.”

Jack: “You think I’m afraid of failing?”

Jeeny: “No. I think you’re afraid of being seen failing.”

Jack: “What’s the difference?”

Jeeny: “The first means you care. The second means you perform.”

Jack: “And I’ve been performing my whole life.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to miss a cue.”

Host: A pigeon fluttered nearby, landing on the bench across from them. Its feathers were dull, its movements clumsy, but it was alive — unbothered by elegance.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought failure was final. That if I messed up badly enough, that was it — story over.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think it’s just… embarrassing. Like tripping in front of people who weren’t even watching.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Nobody’s keeping score but you.”

Jack: “Then why does it feel like the whole world notices?”

Jeeny: “Because ego makes the world smaller. You think everyone’s staring when really, they’re too busy tripping themselves.”

Jack: “That’s comforting.”

Jeeny: “It should be freeing.”

Host: The clock, frozen at 3:17, caught the sunlight and gleamed faintly — a reminder that even broken things can reflect light.

Jack: “You really think there’s time for failure?”

Jeeny: “Always. It’s the only thing we’ll never run out of. Success, love, certainty — they all expire. But failure? That’s loyal.”

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

Jeeny: “It is, if you let it teach instead of torment.”

Jack: “And what does it teach?”

Jeeny: “Humility. Patience. Empathy. Everything the world forgets when it’s chasing trophies.”

Jack: “You talk like you’ve made peace with it.”

Jeeny: “No. But I’ve stopped pretending I can outrun it.”

Host: The sunlight reached the floor now, a slow wash of gold creeping across the tiles. Jack looked at it, then at her. The tightness in his jaw softened.

Jack: “You think I should get back on the train?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe sit a little longer. The next one will come. They always do.”

Jack: “And if I miss that one too?”

Jeeny: “Then you wait again. Remember what Mortimer said — there’s always time for failure. He didn’t mean it as despair, Jack. He meant it as mercy.”

Jack: “Mercy?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The universe keeps giving us more time to try. More time to stumble beautifully.”

Jack: “Beautifully?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because even falling is an art if you fall forward.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back — the great station vast and empty, but full of light now. Two figures sat on a bench, sharing silence, sharing truth.

A train approached in the distance, its sound swelling slowly — not as an ending, but as an invitation.

Host: Because John Mortimer was right — there is always time for failure.

Not as defeat,
but as permission.

Permission to stop pretending perfection is the destination.
Permission to rest. To rebuild. To restart.

And as the train rolled into the platform,
Jack stood, picked up his suitcase,
and turned to Jeeny with a small, tired smile.

Jack: “Maybe failure’s just another word for beginning.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And beginnings are always on time.”

Host: And with that, the doors slid open,
letting in the morning —
soft, forgiving,
and new.