Old wood best to burn, old wine to drink, old friends to trust

Host: The fireplace glowed low and amber in the back of the bookshop, its warmth curling through the air like a quiet sigh. Outside, the rain fell in long, elegant streaks against the old windowpanes, blurring the city into watercolor. The scent of oak smoke, paper, and aged wine filled the air — an aroma so rich it seemed to hum.

Jack sat in a deep leather chair, a book resting open on his knee. The spine was cracked, the pages browned like autumn leaves. Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged on the hearthrug, a glass of red wine balanced carefully in her hand, her eyes lit by firelight.

Behind them, shelves stretched to the ceiling — towers of wisdom and dust, their shadows dancing like old ghosts.

On the small table between them lay a slip of parchment, written in elegant script:

“Old wood best to burn, old wine to drink, old friends to trust, and old authors to read.”
— Athenaeus

Jeeny raised her glass slightly, the light flickering in its surface.

Jeeny: [softly] “To old things that refuse to die.”

Jack: [lifting his glass] “And to the few that age into something better.”

Jeeny: “Like us?”

Jack: “Let’s not flatter ourselves. We’re more like that bottle — surviving because no one’s had the heart to finish it.”

Jeeny: [laughing] “You mean well-preserved.”

Jack: “I mean stubborn.”

Host: The fire cracked, throwing sparks into the air that glimmered like fragments of memory. The rain outside deepened, its rhythm steady, comforting.

Jeeny: “You know, I love that line — ‘old authors to read.’ There’s a kind of mercy in that. The idea that wisdom doesn’t expire, it matures.”

Jack: “Or ferments. Like the wine.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Some truths get better after centuries of silence.”

Jack: “And some just get louder from being ignored.”

Host: Jeeny turned toward the shelves, scanning the faded titles. Homer, Shakespeare, Montaigne, Woolf. Books like bricks of civilization, their spines scarred but unbroken.

Jeeny: “Old authors knew things we’ve forgotten — patience, for one. They wrote like time wasn’t an enemy.”

Jack: “That’s because they didn’t have deadlines or dopamine.”

Jeeny: “And yet we call ourselves modern.”

Jack: “Modern’s just another word for distracted.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why Athenaeus said to trust old friends. They remind you who you were before you started rushing.”

Jack: “And before you started editing your emotions for social approval.”

Jeeny: [grinning] “You mean before smartphones?”

Jack: “Exactly. When friendship meant showing up, not showing off.”

Host: The clock above the mantle ticked slowly, its sound blending with the patter of rain. Every second felt deliberate, earned.

Jeeny: “You ever think about why old things comfort us so much?”

Jack: “Because they survived. Survival is the only real proof of worth.”

Jeeny: “That’s beautifully cruel.”

Jack: “So is time.”

Jeeny: “But there’s tenderness in endurance too. Every mark on old wood, every line on an old face — it’s proof of having lived, not just lasted.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, Jeeny. You’re turning into an author yourself.”

Jeeny: “Give me a few decades. Maybe I’ll make your list of old friends to trust, too.”

Jack: “You’re already there. That’s why I argue with you.”

Host: She smiled — that knowing, familiar smile that comes from years of shared storms and laughter. The kind of smile that doesn’t ask for understanding because it’s already been earned.

The firelight shimmered across their faces — gold and soft, the color of nostalgia.

Jeeny: “You think the quote’s about nostalgia?”

Jack: “No. It’s about discernment. It’s saying: time is the ultimate test of truth. What lasts deserves to.”

Jeeny: “So youth is overrated.”

Jack: “Youth’s beautiful, but it’s untested. You can’t trust a friendship or an idea until it’s been through some winters.”

Jeeny: “That’s the thing about old wood, isn’t it? It burns warmer because it’s already weathered.”

Jack: “And old wine — it deepens because it’s learned to rest.”

Jeeny: “Old authors — they stop trying to impress and just tell the truth.”

Jack: “And old friends?”

Jeeny: “They stop needing to.”

Host: The rain softened into mist. The window glowed faintly, like an old photograph fading into sepia.

Jack leaned forward, pouring a little more wine into Jeeny’s glass.

Jack: “Funny how aging turns from tragedy to privilege once you’ve survived it long enough.”

Jeeny: “Because you stop chasing immortality and start practicing memory.”

Jack: “You’d make Athenaeus proud.”

Jeeny: “He’d probably call me sentimental.”

Jack: “He’d call you wise.”

Host: A spark popped in the fireplace, bright and sudden, then vanished — a brief echo of life itself.

Jeeny set her glass down, looking into the flames.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe that’s the real lesson. The world tells us to worship the new — new art, new people, new love — but maybe it’s the old that saves us. The things that stay after the applause fades.”

Jack: “You’re saying time isn’t the enemy. It’s the editor.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It cuts what doesn’t matter and leaves only what does.”

Host: The fire was dying now, reduced to glowing coals. The air smelled of smoke and stories. The book in Jack’s lap had slipped closed, its last line unread — but somehow understood.

Jeeny stood, stretching, her voice low and wistful.

Jeeny: “You know what I love most about that quote?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “It’s not about clinging to the past. It’s about honoring what endures — in wood, in wine, in words, in people.”

Jack: [nodding] “And knowing the difference between old and obsolete.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: They stood together by the window. The rain had stopped; the street outside shimmered beneath the lamplight, quiet and alive.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s what friendship really is — two people weathering the same storm long enough to become tradition.”

Jeeny: “And still sharing the same fire when the storm passes.”

Host: The clock struck midnight — soft, unhurried. The flames flickered one last time before collapsing into ember.

Jeeny turned to Jack, eyes gentle, voice barely above a whisper.

Jeeny: “Old wood best to burn. Old wine to drink. Old friends to trust. Old authors to read.”

Jack: “And old nights like this to remember.”

Host: Outside, the clouds broke just enough for the moonlight to spill across the shelves, touching the old books like a benediction.

The fire’s last ember winked out, but the warmth remained — in the room, in their laughter, in the silence that only true friendship can bear.

And somewhere between the fading of flame and the stillness of memory, the truth of Athenaeus’s words lived quietly on:

That not all things fade.
Some simply deepen —
until time itself bows in respect.