When people do, or say, things we don't believe in, forgiveness

Host: The train station was almost empty — that strange hour between night and morning when everything feels suspended. The lights above flickered, throwing long shadows across the cracked tiles. Somewhere, a vending machine hummed. Somewhere else, a pigeon shuffled sleepily across the platform.

The air smelled faintly of coffee, rain, and iron — a tired blend of waiting and memory.

Jack sat on a wooden bench, a half-drunk cup of coffee beside him, hands clasped loosely between his knees. His gray eyes stared down at the rails, where the reflections of the station lights trembled like half-formed regrets.

Jeeny approached from the far end, a folded letter in her hand. Her steps echoed softly, careful, uncertain.

Jeeny: “You got my message?”

Jack: “Yeah.” (pause) “Didn’t think you’d want to meet here.”

Jeeny: “It’s neutral ground. Between leaving and staying.”

Host: Her voice trembled just slightly, like she was trying to steady something fragile inside her.

Jack: “You always were poetic when things were falling apart.”

Jeeny: “And you were always cruel when they were.”

Jack: (exhales) “You came here to punish me or forgive me?”

Jeeny: “Maybe both.”

Host: The sound of a distant train rumbled somewhere beyond the fog, low and slow, like thunder pretending to be human.

Jeeny: “Taylor Goldsmith said, *‘When people do, or say, things we don’t believe in, forgiveness can feel disgusting. But when you