Where thou art, that is home.

Host: The train station was nearly empty — a cathedral of echo and iron. The moonlight poured through the high glass panels, cold and silver, painting the floor in long trembling streaks. The faint sound of a departing train — the shriek of metal, the hiss of steam — drifted like a sigh through the vast space.

Jack sat on a worn wooden bench, a duffel bag at his feet, his hands folded, his eyes distant. Jeeny stood nearby, one hand clutching a book, the other tracing invisible shapes in the air — like someone trying to catch a thought before it vanished.

Between them, time lingered — hesitant, unhurried. The departure board flickered: 11:47 P.M. — Delayed.

Jeeny’s voice broke the quiet, gentle, steady, carrying a line that hung in the air like a benediction.

“Where thou art, that is home.” — Emily Dickinson.

Jack looked up.

Jack: “Home, huh? I don’t think Dickinson ever had to pack up her life in a duffel bag.”

Jeeny: “She didn’t have to. She carried her home inside her — that’s what she meant.”

Host: The wind slipped through the cracked doors, carrying the smell of rain and distance. The flickering overhead lights cast both their faces in soft shadow — half light, half longing.

Jack: “You think that’s possible? To carry home inside you?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s the only way we survive. Home isn’t a place, Jack. It’s presence. It’s the people, the moments, the hearts that anchor you.”

Jack: “So if presence is home, what happens when the person leaves?”

Jeeny: “Then you keep them alive in your memory. That’s still a kind of home.”

Jack: bitterly “Memory’s a house with no roof. Everything good eventually leaks out.”

Jeeny: “Only if you forget to tend to it.”

Host: The announcement speaker crackled to life — a woman’s distant voice calling out a train that neither of them were waiting for. Jeeny sat down beside Jack, her shoulder almost touching his.

Jeeny: “You’re leaving again?”

Jack: “You know me. I never stay.”

Jeeny: “And yet you always find your way back.”

Jack: “That’s the curse, isn’t it? The road never ends — it just circles back to the same platform.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s not a curse. Maybe that’s what home really is — the place that forgives you for leaving.”

Jack: smiling faintly “You talk like someone who’s never been lost.”

Jeeny: “I’ve been lost plenty. I just stopped thinking being lost meant being gone.”

Host: The clock above them ticked — loud, deliberate, eternal. Outside, the rain finally began, tapping softly against the windows.

Jack lit a cigarette, watching the smoke curl upward like small ghosts of thought.

Jack: “You know, I’ve been to a hundred cities — London, Istanbul, Buenos Aires — but none of them felt like anything. You’d think after so much running, I’d find a place that fits.”

Jeeny: “You’re looking for belonging in geography. But belonging isn’t on a map.”

Jack: “Then where is it?”

Jeeny: “In the pause between two people who don’t need to explain themselves.”

Jack: “So you mean here?”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Maybe. For now.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, a steady curtain between them and the outside world. The air filled with the sound of water and faint, distant thunder.

Jack: “When Dickinson said, ‘Where thou art, that is home,’ do you think she was talking about love?”

Jeeny: “Of course. But not just love in the romantic sense. She meant the kind of soul connection that transcends walls, time, distance — all of it.”

Jack: “That sounds like poetry. Which means it’s probably not real.”

Jeeny: “It’s real in the moments it happens. That’s enough.”

Jack: “Moments don’t last.”

Jeeny: “Neither does breath, but we still keep breathing.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice carried warmth through the cold air, like a single flame refusing to die. Jack stared at her — not with longing, but with recognition. That quiet, dangerous kind of recognition that makes you realize you’ve already found what you were searching for.

Jack: “You ever think maybe home is just another word for surrender?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. But not the kind that weakens you — the kind that lets you rest.”

Jack: “Rest. I’ve forgotten what that feels like.”

Jeeny: “Then stop running. You don’t need another country, Jack. You just need to stop fighting the one person who makes you feel still.”

Jack: “And if I lose her?”

Jeeny: “Then you build her inside you.”

Host: He looked down, the ash of his cigarette falling like a fragile snowfall. The lights flickered again, as if the world were holding its breath with them.

Jeeny leaned closer, her voice quiet, reverent.

Jeeny: “Home isn’t found. It’s felt. It’s the silence that doesn’t make you lonely. The gaze that tells you you’re seen. The voice that steadies you when everything else trembles.”

Jack: “And if that voice leaves?”

Jeeny: “Then you listen for the echo.”

Host: The train whistle cut through the night — long, distant, mournful. Jack stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. Jeeny rose too, her eyes following him with a calm sadness.

Jack: “So this is goodbye again?”

Jeeny: “No. Just distance. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “You really think home follows you like that?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I think you follow it. It’s already within you — it just wears my face right now.”

Host: He laughed softly, the sound catching in his throat.

Jack: “You always did know how to turn pain into poetry.”

Jeeny: “That’s what home is — poetry that forgives.”

Host: The train roared into the station, the lights flashing across their faces — gold, blue, gold again. Steam rose around them, wrapping them in temporary heaven.

Jack hesitated, his ticket trembling in his hand. Jeeny reached out, brushing his arm lightly — not enough to hold him, just enough to let him know she could.

Jeeny: “Go, if you have to. But remember — where thou art, that is home. Not the city, not the walls. You. Wherever you choose to stay long enough to feel.”

Jack: “And what about you?”

Jeeny: “I’ll stay. Someone has to keep the light on.”

Host: The train doors hissed open. Jack stepped forward, then turned back one last time. Their eyes met — no drama, no tears — just that soft, eternal acknowledgment that some people are home, even when they’re far away.

The doors closed. The train began to move.

Jeeny stood alone on the platform, her reflection shimmering in the rain-slick floor — a woman waiting, but not lost.

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — wide, slow — capturing the empty station, the dim lights, the lonely beauty of departure. Outside, the world was vast and wet and alive.

And somewhere on that train, Jack sat by the window, his hand pressed to the glass, feeling the echo of her words vibrate through the motion:

“Where thou art, that is home.”

The rain traced its soft signature across the glass, and Jack — the cynic, the wanderer — closed his eyes.

For the first time in years, he wasn’t lost.

He was simply — home.