What was past was past. I suppose that was the general attitude.

Host: The train rattled softly through the night, its wheels humming a rhythm that felt like memory in motion. Outside, the landscape blurred — fields, bridges, shadows — all sliding past in a kind of indifferent grace. Inside, the carriage lights glowed a tired gold, illuminating two figures seated across from one another.

Jack, in his dark coat, stared out the window, his reflection fractured by the glass, eyes distant, grey, full of what he’d never say. Jeeny, wrapped in a wool scarf, watched him quietly, the way one watches someone trying not to think too loudly.

Between them on the small table lay a folded note, old and worn — the ink nearly gone. Its words, written in another lifetime, read:
“What was past was past. I suppose that was the general attitude.” — V. S. Naipaul.

Jeeny: “Do you believe that? That the past just… stops mattering because we decide it should?”

Jack: without looking up “No. But I think pretending it does is the only way we keep moving.”

Host: The train swayed, the metallic creak filling the pauses between their words. The air smelled faintly of coffee, iron, and the ghosts of other travelers.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s tried to bury too many things.”

Jack: “You sound like someone who keeps digging them up.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the only way to make peace — to look at what’s buried.”

Jack: dryly “Or to ruin yourself trying.”

Host: The lights flickered, the window flashing with the passing of another small town — a blur of houses, lights in windows, lives continuing, people forgetting.

Jeeny: “Naipaul said it like a resignation, not a philosophy. ‘That was the general attitude.’ You hear the fatigue in it — the kind of numbness that comes when remembering hurts too much.”

Jack: “Maybe numbness is the only mercy time gives us.”

Jeeny: “No. Numbness isn’t mercy. It’s avoidance dressed as wisdom.”

Host: Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes sharp, her voice steady, like someone trying to pull truth from a wound.

Jeeny: “You know, when my mother died, everyone said that line — ‘The past is the past.’ As if that meant anything. As if pain obeyed grammar.”

Jack: finally looking at her “And did it help?”

Jeeny: “No. But it gave them permission to stop asking how I felt. People love that phrase. It makes them innocent again.”

Jack: “Maybe they just wanted you to heal.”

Jeeny: “Healing isn’t forgetting, Jack. It’s remembering without drowning.”

Host: The train lurched slightly, shifting the light, casting shadows across their faces. Jack looked away, his hand tightening around the note as if holding it would keep it from dissolving.

Jack: “I used to think like you. Thought remembering was sacred. But I learned that some things — some people — don’t want to be remembered. The past doesn’t ask to be revisited. It asks to be left alone.”

Jeeny: “The past doesn’t ask for anything. It just waits — quiet, patient, knowing you’ll come back eventually.”

Host: The sound of rain began to tap against the window, soft and persistent, like unspoken apologies falling from the sky.

Jeeny: “You still blame yourself, don’t you?”

Jack: flatly “For what?”

Jeeny: “For surviving.”

Jack: a bitter laugh “You think survival’s something to feel guilty about?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes, yes. When you’ve seen what it cost.”

Host: Silence again — thick, heavy, familiar. The kind that fills the lungs before the truth finally escapes. Jack exhaled, long and slow, his voice low.

Jack: “I left her. The night of the fire. Everyone told me to run, and I did. I told myself it was instinct. But it wasn’t. It was fear. Pure, selfish fear. And after that — well — what was past was past, right?”

Jeeny: softly “That’s not an attitude, Jack. That’s grief wearing a mask.”

Jack: “It’s survival wearing one.”

Host: The rain thickened, running down the glass like tears tracing history. Jeeny reached out, placed her hand gently on his, anchoring him back to the present.

Jeeny: “You can’t live by erasing. The past doesn’t vanish because you stop talking about it. It just waits for you in the quiet moments — like this.”

Jack: quietly, without resistance “Then tell me what to do with it.”

Jeeny: “Don’t do anything. Just stop pretending it’s over.”

Host: The train whistle sounded, low and mournful, echoing across the dark fields beyond the window. Jack closed his eyes, the note trembling slightly in his hand.

Jack: “You ever wish you could start over completely? No memory, no guilt, no names?”

Jeeny: “No. Without memory, you lose meaning. Even pain gives us shape.”

Jack: “Then maybe that’s the tragedy of being human — we’re sculpted by what we can’t undo.”

Jeeny: “And softened by what we can forgive.”

Host: The train began to slow, the motion easing, the rain quieting to a whisper. Outside, the horizon paled with the faintest trace of dawn — soft, hesitant, the world waking up again.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe Naipaul wasn’t wrong. Maybe the general attitude is to move on. But that doesn’t mean we have to agree with it. Maybe remembering is its own rebellion.”

Jack: half-smiling, tired but real “Rebellion against what?”

Jeeny: “Against forgetting that we once cared.”

Host: The train stopped, a hiss of steam rising around them. The station outside was small, quiet — a place between destinations. Jack folded the note carefully, slipping it into his coat pocket.

He stood, and for the first time that night, his eyes looked forward, not back.

Jack: “Maybe the past doesn’t need to disappear. Maybe it just needs to stop owning me.”

Jeeny: nodding softly “That’s the difference between forgetting and forgiving.”

Host: The doors opened, the cold morning air rushing in, crisp and new. They stepped out together, their breath visible, their footsteps echoing against the wet platform.

Behind them, the train exhaled, its wheels beginning to turn, carrying the night — and all its ghosts — away.

And as the first light broke, Jeeny turned to him and said, almost as a prayer:

“What’s past isn’t gone, Jack. It’s just waiting for you to walk beside it — without fear.”

Host: The sun rose, slow and forgiving,
and the past, for once, didn’t follow —
it simply walked with them, quietly,
like an old friend who had finally learned how to let go.