Next to acquiring good friends, the best acquisition is that of

Host: The rain tapped against the library window like fingers lost in thought. Outside, the streetlights glowed through the mist, turning the world into a blur of amber ghosts. Inside, the air smelled of aged paper, leather, and faint dust — the perfume of time itself.

Jack sat in a deep armchair, his long frame folded like a question mark, a half-empty glass of whiskey beside him. The lamplight painted one side of his face in gold, the other in shadow. Across from him, Jeeny crouched near the bottom shelf, her fingers brushing the spines of books as though they were relics.

Jeeny: “Charles Caleb Colton said — ‘Next to acquiring good friends, the best acquisition is that of good books.’ Don’t you think that’s beautiful?”

Jack: “Beautiful? Maybe. True? I’m not sure anymore.”

Host: The rain deepened, its rhythm steady, like a metronome for reflection. The library lights hummed faintly overhead, keeping vigil over two restless souls and a thousand sleeping voices bound in cloth and ink.

Jack: “Books and friends. Two things people romanticize. But most friends leave when it’s inconvenient, and most books just lie to you in prettier ways.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you expect too much certainty from both. The point isn’t permanence, Jack. It’s connection — even temporary ones can change you.”

Jack: “Change you, or comfort you until you forget what’s real? Books are good at that — they make pain look poetic and loneliness look noble. But when the lights go out, it’s just you again. Alone.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you’re sitting here surrounded by them.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flickered toward the shelves — towers of thought, quiet, eternal, waiting. A slow smile crept across his face, one not of joy but recognition.

Jack: “Yeah. Maybe because they’re safer than people. Books don’t betray you. They just fade.”

Jeeny: “That’s the beauty, Jack. They fade gently. They teach you how to lose — without bitterness. Friends… they’re messier. They break you open. But books — books heal in silence.”

Host: A draft moved through the old building, stirring a few pages on a nearby table. The sound was soft — like whispers of ghosts caught mid-conversation.

Jeeny: “When I was little, I used to hide in the library after school. My parents fought a lot. But here, it was quiet. The books never shouted. They just waited. That’s how I learned kindness — from voices that never knew me.”

Jack: “You’re telling me fiction raised you?”

Jeeny: “No. Humanity did — disguised as fiction. Dickens, Austen, Baldwin, García Márquez… they all became friends before I knew what friendship meant.”

Jack: “You talk about books like they breathe.”

Jeeny: “They do. Just differently. Every sentence is a breath someone left behind.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on knees, his grey eyes sharp but tired — the kind of tired that doesn’t come from the body but from the spirit that’s seen too much and believed too little.

Jack: “You really think a pile of words can replace people?”

Jeeny: “Not replace — reveal. Good books remind us of what we forget in the noise: empathy, grief, wonder, truth. They make you feel again when life turns numb.”

Jack: “Empathy’s easy on paper. Try practicing it when the person across from you is shouting.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why we need books — they train the heart. Reading Dostoevsky doesn’t make the world quieter, but it helps you recognize yourself in the shouting.”

Host: A flash of lightning flickered through the window, momentarily illuminating the titles on the shelf: The Brothers Karamazov, The Little Prince, To Kill a Mockingbird. Names like old friends.

Jack: “You know, I used to love books. When I was younger. They gave me escape. But somewhere along the line, escape turned into avoidance.”

Jeeny: “Avoidance of what?”

Jack: “People. Responsibility. Feeling too much. It’s easier to read about courage than to live it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe reading was your rehearsal. You can’t act the part until you’ve seen the script.”

Host: The lamp flickered, and Jack’s face softened. He looked at Jeeny — her small frame surrounded by shelves taller than her dreams, her eyes bright with quiet defiance.

Jack: “You really believe books can teach you how to live?”

Jeeny: “They can teach you how to begin. The rest is up to you.”

Jack: “And friends? Where do they fit in?”

Jeeny: “Friends are the living books. They’re the ones you can argue with, laugh with, hurt, forgive. But they’re rarer. You can buy a thousand books — you can’t buy a single true friend.”

Host: A long silence followed. The rain softened, now more like a sigh. Jack picked up an old hardcover, the pages yellowed, the spine cracked — Letters to a Young Poet. He thumbed through it slowly, reverently.

Jack: “Rilke. I remember reading this in college. He said, ‘Live the questions now.’”

Jeeny: “And you stopped, didn’t you?”

Jack: (quietly) “I started answering them too soon.”

Host: His voice broke slightly, though his expression didn’t. Jeeny closed her book, stood, and crossed the room. She placed her hand gently on the back of his chair — grounding, patient.

Jeeny: “Books don’t just teach us words, Jack. They teach us how to listen — even to ourselves.”

Jack: “And friends?”

Jeeny: “They teach us how to answer.”

Host: The rain stopped. The silence it left behind was almost holy. A faint smell of earth drifted in through the open window — renewal in disguise.

Jack: “You know, maybe Colton was right. Friends and books — they both hold pieces of our unfinished selves.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. One teaches you to read the world. The other teaches you to live in it.”

Host: Jack smiled — a small, weary smile, but the kind that feels like dawn after too long a night. He set the book down, leaned back, and looked around at the endless shelves.

Jack: “If books are friends, then I guess I’ve never been as lonely as I thought.”

Jeeny: “You’ve never been alone at all.”

Host: The lamplight softened into a quiet glow. The pages around them shimmered faintly, like a thousand souls breathing in rhythm.

Jeeny picked up a volume from the shelf and handed it to him.

Jeeny: “Here. Read this one again. But this time, don’t escape. Just… arrive.”

Jack: “And if I forget how?”

Jeeny: “Then I’ll remind you.”

Host: Outside, the rainclouds broke open into a thin silver dawn. Inside, the library held them like a cathedral holds prayers — timeless, sacred, alive.

As Jack opened the book, the sound of turning pages filled the air — soft, deliberate, eternal.

The kind of sound that feels like home.