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Host: The sky bled purple over the river, streaked with the dying light of a winter sunset. Inside the old train station café, the air was thick with the smell of coffee and faint dust, a kind of nostalgia that clung to every surface. The clock ticked lazily above the door. A single table sat near the window where the shadows of two people stretched long across the tiled floor.

Jack was there — coat open, scarf loose, his grey eyes fixed on the steam curling from his mug. Jeeny sat opposite him, her hair half-lit by the evening glow, a few loose strands falling across her face as she traced the rim of her cup with one slender finger.

The café’s radio murmured softly, the voice of some literary podcast whispering about Raymond E. Feist and the end of a character named James — the Grey Eminence.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How an author can talk about saying good-bye to someone who doesn’t even exist. And yet, it feels like a real loss.”

Jack: “They do exist. At least to him. That’s the curse of creation — the things you invent become real enough to haunt you. But you can’t let ghosts write your next story.”

Host: The train whistle echoed faintly from the distance, a low, melancholic sound that seemed to underline his words. Jeeny’s eyes followed the noise out toward the window, where flakes of snow began to fall — slow, deliberate, like forgotten words.

Jeeny: “Maybe he didn’t want to let go. Maybe Feist wasn’t just ending a story; maybe he was cutting away part of himself. Don’t you think that takes courage?”

Jack: “Or cruelty. Depends how you look at it. Every time you move on — from a person, a place, even a character — you’re killing something. You call it courage, I call it survival.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t survival the most human thing of all? You can’t grow if you refuse to end chapters. That’s what Feist meant — he already knew where he wanted to go, and the old voice, the old presence, was in the way. It’s… poetic, in a brutal kind of way.”

Host: The light dimmed further, painting their faces in tones of amber and shadow. Outside, the snow thickened, turning the streets to liquid glass beneath the lamps. The world felt quieter — the kind of quiet that holds memory like a breath.

Jack: “So what are you saying? That we should thank the people we lose for being in the way?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying that letting go doesn’t erase them. It honors them. Feist didn’t hate James — he loved him enough to set him free.”

Jack: “That’s romantic, Jeeny. But sometimes ‘setting someone free’ is just a nice way of saying you’re tired of carrying them.”

Jeeny: “You sound bitter.”

Jack: “I sound honest.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his chair creaking. The light caught his eyes, silver in the dimness, like shards of something once whole. Jeeny’s expression softened — she knew that tone too well, the one he used when he wasn’t talking about books anymore.

Jeeny: “Who was she, Jack?”

Jack: “Don’t.”

Jeeny: “You brought it up without saying her name. You always do when you talk about endings.”

Host: The silence that followed was long and fragile, like a thin sheet of ice over deep water. Jack’s hands tightened around his cup, the faint steam blurring his reflection.

Jack: “You think it’s noble, this thing — moving on, saying good-bye. But people talk about closure like it’s a clean thing. It isn’t. It’s jagged. It leaves marks.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you still move forward. Even if it’s jagged.”

Jack: “You have to. Because if you stay with the ghosts, you stop writing the next chapter. That’s the real tragedy — not the loss, but the paralysis.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: “But you just said letting go was brave.”

Jeeny: “It is. But bravery doesn’t mean painless. Feist probably sat at his desk and stared at that character’s name for hours before deleting it. That’s love — not the soft kind, the hard kind. The kind that hurts enough to free you.”

Host: The snow outside swirled, thick and white, the lamplight turning it into slow-motion sparks. The radio voice droned on about Feist’s world-building, but neither of them were listening now. Their voices had dipped into something quieter, something real.

Jack: “Do you ever wonder if we invent people in our lives the way writers invent characters? We give them roles, expectations. And when they stop fitting the story, we… edit them out?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I think the difference is that writers know it’s fiction. The rest of us pretend it isn’t.”

Jack: “So Feist was just more honest than most.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why his line feels so human. ‘He had had an amazing life, and it was time to bid him good-bye.’ Isn’t that what we all have to do eventually? Say thank you to what shaped us — and then move on before it traps us?”

Host: Jack didn’t answer. His breath fogged the glass as he looked toward the tracks, where a train’s headlight glowed faintly through the storm — a pale, relentless eye moving forward no matter the weather.

Jeeny: “Jack?”

Jack: “I just realized something. Maybe the real Grey Eminence in life isn’t another person. Maybe it’s the part of you that keeps looking back — the quiet shadow that won’t stop whispering the old names.”

Jeeny: “And you?”

Jack: “I’ve had a few Grey Eminences. Some with faces, some without.”

Host: The sound of the train grew louder — a long, rising hum that seemed to fill the entire room. Cups trembled on their sau