War, I have always said, forces men to change their standards

Host: The train station stood hollow beneath a bruised sky, its old arches echoing the soft footsteps of travelers coming and going. The evening light bled through the cracked glass, scattering pale shards across the platform like a memory of better times. A clock ticked slowly above, its hands heavy with history.

Jack sat on a worn bench, his military jacket folded neatly beside him, his grey eyes lost somewhere beyond the distant tracks. The faint smell of iron and smoke hung in the air, familiar and haunting. Jeeny approached quietly, a small book tucked beneath her arm — Poems of War and Silence, the title faded from use.

The wind slipped through the station’s open gates, whispering across the marble floor like an old ghost. The world, it seemed, was still recovering from something — or perhaps always would be.

Jeeny: (softly) “Salvatore Quasimodo once wrote, ‘War, I have always said, forces men to change their standards, regardless of whether their country has won or lost.’”

Jack: (without looking up) “He’s right. No one walks away clean. Even the victors lose something.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what change is — losing something to make space for something else?”

Jack: “Not in war, Jeeny. In war, what you lose never makes space for anything. It just hollows you out.”

Host: The announcement of an arriving train trembled through the station. The sound of wheels against steel screamed, then softened into a heavy, rhythmic sigh. Jeeny sat beside him, her eyes studying his face — the hard lines, the quiet ache behind his words.

Jeeny: “You’ve seen it, haven’t you? The kind of change Quasimodo meant.”

Jack: “Change? It’s more like infection. You start the war believing in good and evil — clean lines, clear reasons. Then you realize the only real constant is survival. And once that becomes the standard, everything else collapses.”

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s the point. Maybe war forces us to see what our values are really made of — to strip away the illusions.”

Jack: (bitterly) “Illusions? You call mercy an illusion? Honor? Faith?”

Jeeny: “No. I call them fragile. And fragility isn’t failure, Jack. It’s proof that humanity still resists becoming inhuman.”

Host: A silence settled between them — the kind not born of discomfort, but of mutual understanding that words could only ever reach halfway. The train pulled in, steam rising like a curtain between past and present.

Jack: “You know, before my first deployment, I thought war was a test of strength. Turns out it’s a test of weakness — of how far you’ll bend before you break.”

Jeeny: “And did you?”

Jack: “Break?” (he pauses) “No. But I stopped caring about what it meant to stay whole.”

Jeeny: “That’s still breaking, Jack. Just slower.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, but not from fear — from the quiet grief of understanding something she had never lived, but deeply felt. The rain began to fall outside, a soft drizzle painting the world in blurred shadows.

Jack: “You know what happens after the first shot? The standards shift. Killing stops being wrong, fear stops being shameful, compassion becomes a liability. You start measuring right and wrong by what keeps you alive. And when it’s over, you can’t switch back. The war doesn’t end when the guns stop.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the real war is learning how to live after it.”

Jack: “You think that’s possible? To come back to a world that hasn’t seen what you’ve seen? To shake hands with men who think winning means you were right?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s possible to try. That’s what poets like Quasimodo were fighting for — not victory, but voice. He lived through a world torn apart by fascism and still wrote about love, about memory. Maybe the only way to survive war is to write through it.”

Host: The lights flickered overhead, the hum of the station swallowing her last words. Jack leaned forward, his hands clasped, his breath heavy with something that wasn’t quite anger, wasn’t quite sorrow.

Jack: “You talk like art can fix what bullets destroy.”

Jeeny: “Not fix. Remember. That’s different. Remembering means refusing to accept the new standards war forces on us.”

Jack: “And what good is remembering? It doesn’t stop the next one.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But it stops us from pretending we’re innocent when it happens.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glistened, the reflection of a passing train lighting them with brief, golden sorrow. Jack stared at her — the way she spoke softly but struck hard, like truth wearing silk.

Jack: “You ever wonder why people keep fighting, even after knowing what it costs?”

Jeeny: “Because they forget. Because each generation grows up far enough from the last war to think this time will be different.”

Jack: “And it never is.”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe that’s why we need the broken to speak — the ones who’ve seen the cost. Otherwise, war becomes a story told by those who never had to pay for it.”

Host: The rain fell harder now, streaking the windows like tears on glass. The station echoed with the distant sound of a horn, low and haunting.

Jack: “You know, when I came home, people called me a hero. But I wasn’t. I just followed orders. Sometimes I think ‘hero’ is a word civilians use to forget the blood behind the flag.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s a word they use to forgive themselves for sending others to fight.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Quasimodo was right. War forces everyone to change — not just the soldiers. The mothers, the children, the ones who stayed behind — their standards shift too. What they can endure. What they can ignore.”

Jeeny: “And what they can still believe in.”

Host: The clock above struck the hour. The sound echoed through the station like a slow heartbeat. Jack stood, gathering his jacket, the fabric worn but clean, the edges lined with quiet history.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, sometimes I think peace is just another kind of war — one fought in silence, where no one sees the wounds.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it’s the only kind worth fighting for.”

Host: He looked at her, a flicker of something human breaking through the layers of restraint — a kind of tired grace that only those who’ve lived too long with ghosts can carry.

Jack: “You always find the poetry in pain.”

Jeeny: “Because that’s where truth hides, Jack. Between the ashes and the heartbeat.”

Host: The train hissed, preparing to depart. Jack slung his bag over his shoulder. Jeeny didn’t move. She just watched him with quiet understanding.

Jack: (softly) “You know what’s strange? Even after everything, part of me still misses the clarity. Out there, everything was simple: survive or don’t. Here… everything’s blurred again.”

Jeeny: “That’s life, Jack. The blur is what makes it human.”

Host: The door closed behind him. The train began to move, slow at first, then faster — carrying Jack into the dim rainlight beyond the platform. Jeeny remained, staring at the tracks, her reflection merging with the trembling glass.

Outside, the rain softened once more, as if the sky itself were sighing in relief.

And in that trembling silence, the truth of Quasimodo’s words lingered — that war, whether won or lost, changes more than nations.

It changes men, it changes morals, it changes the meaning of mercy.

And somewhere between the sound of a departing train and the echo of forgotten guns, a poet’s ghost whispered:
Victory is never clean. Only memory can be honest.