I love the smell of a real Christmas tree - also, my mum's

Host: The fireplace burned low and steady, the kind of flame that didn’t roar but whispered — a quiet hymn of comfort against the deep December cold. The living room was dressed in soft lights, strings of gold winding around the old pine tree that stood proudly in the corner, its branches heavy with ornaments from a dozen forgotten Christmases.

Outside, snow fell with gentle persistence, covering the world in a hush that felt almost sacred. Inside, time slowed — not from stillness, but from warmth.

Jack sat on the floor by the hearth, a mug of brandy-laced cocoa in his hand. His tie was undone, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his expression caught somewhere between nostalgia and surrender. Jeeny sat cross-legged beside the tree, tying the last silver ribbon onto a wrapped gift, the faint glow from the fire turning her hair into a moving halo of light.

Jeeny: “You know, Mallory Jansen once said, ‘I love the smell of a real Christmas tree — also, my mum’s Christmas pudding with brandy sauce.’”

Jack: (half-smile) “That’s oddly specific.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes it beautiful. She’s not talking about Christmas as an idea. She’s talking about home.”

Jack: “You mean nostalgia.”

Jeeny: “No. I mean belonging.”

Host: The firelight flickered across Jack’s face — its glow softening the sharp lines carved by time and cynicism. He looked toward the tree, the faint scent of pine drifting in the air, fresh and earthy.

Jack: “Funny. I don’t think I’ve had a real tree since I was a kid. The last one we had was plastic — smelled like dust and obligation.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And yet you remember the real ones.”

Jack: “Yeah. I remember the smell. That mix of sap, cold air, and something I can’t name. Maybe joy.”

Jeeny: “Or forgiveness.”

Host: Jeeny got up and crossed to the fireplace, poking at the embers with the iron poker. Sparks rose like fireflies — brief, bright, and gone.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how certain smells carry time? One breath, and suddenly you’re eight again — waiting for your mum to let you lick the spoon.”

Jack: (softly) “Yeah. My mum made gingerbread. The house would smell like cinnamon for days. You could taste warmth before you even sat down.”

Jeeny: “And then life gets louder, and we start buying candles that pretend to be memories.”

Jack: “I guess that’s adulthood — faking magic and calling it productivity.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s survival. Maybe we’re just trying to remember what tenderness smelled like.”

Host: The clock above the mantel ticked softly. The snow outside thickened, muting even the faint hum of the city beyond.

Jack leaned back against the sofa, his eyes half-lidded, a slow exhale leaving his lips like confession.

Jack: “You think that’s why Christmas matters? The smells, the sounds — all the ritual. It’s not about religion anymore. It’s about the illusion that, for one night, we’re all forgiven.”

Jeeny: “Forgiven by who?”

Jack: “Ourselves, maybe. Or by the ghosts we keep inviting back every December.”

Jeeny: “You mean memory.”

Jack: “I mean love that outlived its owners.”

Host: The fire cracked — a small sound, but loud enough to fill the quiet. Jeeny turned toward him, her gaze steady and gentle, like candlelight.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why people keep putting up trees, even when they live alone. It’s not about who’s coming — it’s about remembering who taught you how to hope.”

Jack: (quietly) “And what if you never had anyone to teach you that?”

Jeeny: “Then you learn from the tree itself. It stands tall even when it’s dying, and still makes the room smell like life.”

Host: Jeeny walked over to the table and poured a little more brandy into their mugs. The air filled with that warm, sweet, smoky scent — the kind that lingers in memory long after the taste fades.

Jack: “You know, my mum used to make a pudding too. Not as fancy as yours probably. She’d pour brandy over it and light it just to see our faces. I thought it was magic — watching blue flames dance over raisins and sugar.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “It was magic. The kind we only believe in before we start counting calories and cynicism.”

Jack: “She used to say, ‘Christmas is just an excuse to practice gratitude.’ Back then, I thought that meant presents. Now… I’m not so sure.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it meant survival. Gratitude’s just how we keep the soul from freezing.”

Jack: “You sound like a poet.”

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who still remembers warmth.”

Host: The tree lights reflected faintly in the windowpane, little constellations trembling in the glass. The snow outside had buried the world in silence — a stillness that felt earned.

Jeeny: “You know, everyone talks about Christmas as joy. But I think it’s really about tenderness — the kind that hurts a little. The kind that smells like pine and burns like brandy.”

Jack: “You make it sound tragic.”

Jeeny: “No. Honest. Joy without ache is decoration, not meaning.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Maybe that’s why it always makes me sad — not because it’s broken, but because it’s too perfect to last.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes it worth loving.”

Host: She sat beside him on the rug, close enough that the warmth between them felt like a continuation of the fire. Neither spoke for a while. The soft crackle of wood and the hum of winter outside did all the talking that needed to be done.

Jack: “You ever wish we could bottle it? The smell, the warmth, the… pause? Keep it for when the world goes cold again?”

Jeeny: “We already do. That’s what memory is. It’s just bottled tenderness.”

Jack: “And art?”

Jeeny: “Art’s how we share the bottle.”

Host: A quiet laugh escaped him — low, unguarded. He took a sip of the brandy cocoa, the warmth settling into his chest like peace rediscovered.

Jeeny looked at him, her voice barely above the sound of the fire.

Jeeny: “You see, Mallory Jansen wasn’t just talking about trees or pudding. She was talking about inheritance — about the way love lingers in the things it touches. Her mum’s pudding, your mum’s gingerbread… that’s not nostalgia, Jack. That’s continuity.”

Jack: “And the smell of pine?”

Jeeny: “Proof that something once lived, and gave itself to beauty.”

Host: The room was dim now, the fire almost out, the world outside still wrapped in snow and silence. Jack stood, walked to the window, and looked out at the whiteness.

Jack: “You think it’s strange — that a smell can undo years of forgetting?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s divine. It’s the universe reminding you you’re still connected — to the people, the moments, the warmth you thought you’d lost.”

Jack: “Then maybe Christmas isn’t about faith after all.”

Jeeny: “No. Maybe it’s about remembering how to feel faith — in anything, anyone, again.”

Host: The last ember flickered in the hearth, casting a golden shadow that stretched across the floor, reaching toward the tree.

Jeeny stood, walked over, and rested her hand gently on one of its branches.

Jeeny: “It’s funny, isn’t it? How we cut something living, bring it inside, and call it celebration. But maybe that’s the point — to honor the temporary. To love what we know we’ll have to let go.”

Jack: (softly) “You make everything sound sacred.”

Jeeny: “That’s because it is.”

Host: The snow continued to fall — thick, unhurried, eternal. The fire was down to embers, the tree’s scent filling the quiet house like a memory that refused to leave.

Two mugs sat side by side on the hearth. Two hearts, momentarily aligned in the hush of December.

Because as Mallory Jansen once said — and as they now understood —

It’s never just the smell of pine, or the taste of pudding.
It’s the way love lingers in small, living things — the ones that warm the air long after they’ve gone.

Christmas isn’t a season. It’s a scent.
And the miracle is that we still remember how to breathe it in.