Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who

Host: The train station sat like an ancient heart, pulsing beneath the pale blue haze of early evening. Steam drifted along the platform, curling through the faint light of street lamps that flickered against the slow breath of twilight. The sound of distant trains came and went — a steady rhythm of arrival and departure, as if time itself were breathing in mechanical sighs.

The clock tower above the platform ticked, loud and deliberate — a god of seconds watching over souls in motion. Beneath it stood Jack, hands deep in his coat pockets, a man balanced between impatience and memory. His grey eyes scanned the horizon of rails that stretched endlessly forward, yet curved back into the past.

Jeeny appeared from the fog, her small frame illuminated by the amber glow of the station café sign. A red scarf wound around her neck, fluttering slightly in the wind. Her eyes carried that same familiar warmth — a softness that defied the cold.

Pinned on the wooden bench between them lay a small book, open to a page that bore the words:
“Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love, time is eternity.” — Henry Van Dyke.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how time feels different when you’re waiting for someone?”

Jack: “Feels the same to me. Slow, predictable, just numbers ticking away.”

Jeeny: “No. It stretches. It bends. It becomes something else. Like it’s alive.”

Jack: “That’s just your mind playing tricks, Jeeny. Time doesn’t stretch — it’s constant. It’s us who move unevenly.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But isn’t that the point of Van Dyke’s line? That time isn’t measured by clocks, but by feeling?”

Jack: “Feelings don’t make physics.”

Jeeny: “And physics doesn’t make meaning.”

Host: A gust of wind blew across the platform, scattering old tickets and newspaper scraps. The station bell rang in the distance, marking another train’s departure. Jack watched it leave — the blur of motion against still air, the collision of speed and stillness.

Jack: “You talk about meaning like it can slow a clock down.”

Jeeny: “It can. Ask anyone who’s fallen in love or lost someone they loved. Time changes shape then. It’s not a machine; it’s a heartbeat.”

Jack: “A poetic one, maybe. But not a real one. The universe doesn’t care if you’re grieving or dancing — seconds pass the same.”

Jeeny: “Then why do they feel so different?”

Jack: “Because we’re built to suffer illusions. That’s our specialty.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe we’re built to feel eternity inside moments.”

Host: The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut through the whistle of the arriving train. Jeeny looked at Jack, her eyes steady, her voice quieter now — the kind of quiet that asks to be believed.

Jeeny: “You know, when my father died, the days after felt endless. Like the sun was slower. Like every minute weighed a ton. But when my niece was born, one week later — it was the opposite. Time ran through my fingers. It was light again.”

Jack: “That’s not time changing. That’s you. Emotion alters perception. Neurology 101.”

Jeeny: “So what if it’s perception? Isn’t that still real? If love can change how you feel time, doesn’t that make it powerful?”

Jack: “Powerful, yes. But not eternal. Everything fades. Even love.”

Jeeny: “You don’t believe that.”

Jack: “I do.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes softened — pity and defiance mingling like shadow and flame. The train doors opened behind them, spilling light onto the platform floor, where it shimmered like gold dust.

Jeeny: “Then what are you doing here, Jack?”

Jack: “What do you mean?”

Jeeny: “You’ve come to this station every year on this same day. You sit under that same clock. You stare down the tracks. Don’t tell me it’s just habit.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. His hands clenched inside his pockets. The faint reflection of the clock’s face shimmered in his eyes.

Jack: “She used to wait here with me. My wife. Before the accident. We were supposed to take that 7:40 train. She said time was on our side.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I don’t know what side I’m on.”

Host: The fog thickened, wrapping the station in a quiet kind of grief. The sound of the train blurred into a hum, like an old record slowing down. Jeeny stepped closer, her hand hovering near his arm, hesitant but sure.

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re still keeping her time, Jack. Maybe love doesn’t stop — it just changes clocks.”

Jack: “That’s what people say to make themselves feel better.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s what people say when they’ve seen eternity for a second and can’t go back.”

Host: A faint smile ghosted across her lips, but her eyes shimmered with tears unshed. Jack looked at her, searching for disbelief, but found none — only conviction, raw and simple.

Jack: “You really think love can make time eternal?”

Jeeny: “Not make. Reveal. We chase time trying to hold it still — but when you love someone, it already stops. That’s why you remember certain moments like they’re still happening.”

Jack: “Memory isn’t eternity, Jeeny. It’s repetition.”

Jeeny: “Then why does it still hurt like the first time?”

Host: The station clock struck seven. Each chime rolled through the space, echoing against iron beams and stone floors. The sound hung like a slow, measured heartbeat in the air.

Jack: “You think Van Dyke was writing about romantic love. But he wasn’t. He was a minister. He meant divine love — the kind that’s not human.”

Jeeny: “All love is divine when it’s real.”

Jack: “You make it sound holy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe every time we love someone, we touch eternity for a second — and then spend the rest of our lives trying to remember what it felt like.”

Host: A train whistled in the distance. The air shifted, pulling the fog across the tracks like a curtain. For a moment, the world slowed — the ticking clock seemed to fade, and everything stilled in that impossible breath between seconds.

Jack: “I used to think time was cruel. It takes everything.”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t take — it carries. It keeps what we can’t.”

Jack: “Then where does it carry her?”

Jeeny: “Into you.”

Host: Jack’s eyes glistened — not with tears, but with something heavier. He turned toward the train — its windows glowing, its doors still open.

Jack: “So if time is eternity for those who love… maybe I don’t need to keep coming back here.”

Jeeny: “Maybe she’s been with you every time you did.”

Host: The clock struck again, soft this time — not as a reminder, but as release. The light shifted, flooding the station floor with a glow that felt almost sacred. Jack exhaled, slow and steady, like a man who’d been holding his breath for years.

Jeeny reached for his hand — not to comfort, but to anchor him.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack? It’s not that love stops time. It teaches you that it never mattered.”

Jack: “You think love makes us timeless?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it makes us infinite — even for a second.”

Host: The train doors began to close with a soft hiss, and the sound of steel against steel filled the air. Jack didn’t board. He stayed, watching as the train slipped into the distance, its red lights fading into the fog like two dying stars.

The station grew quiet again. Only the clock remained, ticking — but softer now, almost merciful.

Jeeny turned to him, her voice low, her eyes tender.

Jeeny: “You waited long enough, Jack. Maybe eternity isn’t out there — maybe it’s right here.”

Host: Jack looked at her, then at the empty rails — and finally, for the first time, he smiled. Not out of joy, but peace.

Outside, the fog lifted, revealing the last stretch of fading daylight, where the sky and horizon met — indistinguishable, eternal.

And as they stood there beneath the great clock, time, for once, seemed to pause — not because it stopped moving,
but because they finally did.