The customs and fashions of men change like leaves on the bough

Host: The autumn night had fallen softly over the city, painting the streets in amber and shadow. Leaves drifted through the air, twirling like forgotten promises beneath the dim glow of streetlamps. In a small café tucked between bookstores and closed flower shops, Jack and Jeeny sat by the window, their faces caught in the flickering light of a candle that had begun to melt unevenly. A faint breeze slipped through the cracked glass, carrying the smell of rain and burnt coffee.

Jack leaned back, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the sidewalk beyond the glass. Jeeny’s fingers rested on a cup, tracing the rim as if it were a circle of memory she didn’t wish to break.

The world outside was moving, changing — the way Dante once said, like leaves on a bough, some falling, others growing.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it, Jack? How people, their customs, their fashions, their very beliefs — all seem to shift with the seasons. Just like these leaves, they fall when their time comes.”

Jack: “Strange? No, Jeeny. It’s natural. That’s what Dante meant — change isn’t a curse. It’s the only constant. Fashions, morality, tradition — they all rot if they stay too long on the branch.”

Host: The rain began to tap against the window, a slow, rhythmic sound that filled the pauses between their words.

Jeeny: “But some things shouldn’t change, Jack. Compassion, honesty, dignity — those are not fashions to be discarded when convenient.”

Jack: “And yet they do. Look around, Jeeny. The world runs on what’s useful, not what’s noble. Empires rise and fall because they adapt, not because they cling to sentiment.”

Jeeny: “Empires fall when they forget their soul. When Rome forgot its virtue, it crumbled, not from change, but from emptiness.”

Jack: “Or perhaps because it didn’t change fast enough. Because it believed its own myth of eternal order while the world around it evolved. The barbarians didn’t destroy Rome — stagnation did.”

Host: The candle wavered, casting shadows that danced on the wall like ghosts of the past. Jack’s voice was low, almost a growl, while Jeeny’s carried the tremor of conviction.

Jeeny: “But if everything is meant to change, Jack, then what’s the point of principle? What’s the meaning of goodness if it’s only useful until it isn’t?”

Jack: “The meaning is in survival, Jeeny. In adapting. We’re not angels; we’re creatures of need and time. Principles serve the living, not the dead. When people cling to the past, they wither like those leaves you admire.”

Jeeny: “Then you’re saying there’s no truth, only trend. No virtue, only fashion. That’s a cold way to live, Jack.”

Jack: “Not cold — honest. The world doesn’t care for our sentiments. It turns, evolves, forgets. Just as Dante saw — customs and fashions come and go, and we pretend there’s a moral thread holding it all together.”

Jeeny: “Maybe we don’t pretend. Maybe we hope. There’s a difference.”

Host: A bus passed, its headlights cutting across their table, illuminating the steam that rose from Jeeny’s cup. For a moment, the light made her eyes shimmer, like tears not yet born.

Jeeny: “When I was a child, my mother used to sew her own clothes. She said every stitch was a promise — to endure, to remember. Now, people buy clothes only to throw them away a month later. Not because they wear out, but because they want something new. Isn’t that the same disease spreading in everything — our faith, our love, our loyalties?”

Jack: “That’s not a disease, Jeeny. That’s progress. The old ways were chains. You talk of memory — I talk of motion. Humanity moves forward by forgetting.”

Jeeny: “By forgetting its own heart?”

Jack: “By shedding its skins, yes. That’s how the snake survives. You can’t evolve if you cling to every old scale that once shone.”

Host: A pause hung between them — a quiet so thick it felt alive. The rain had grown louder, beating against the window like a drum of time itself.

Jeeny: “But the snake, Jack, also loses its memory of what it once was. Isn’t that what’s happening to us? We’re shedding not just our skins, but our souls. We change, yes — but are we growing, or just mutating?”

Jack: “That’s a poet’s question, Jeeny. And the world doesn’t have time for poets anymore. It has deadlines, data, and wars. Look at technology — the internet, AI, machines — all changing us faster than any religion or philosophy ever did. Are you really going to argue that we should slow down to save our nostalgia?”

Jeeny: “I’m saying we should remember why we move at all. Change without purpose is just chaos. You call it evolution; I call it forgetting who we are.”

Jack: “And who are we, Jeeny? Tell me. Farmers in the fields? Monks in robes? Lovers who wait by the river for letters that never come? Those days are gone. And they’re not coming back.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they shouldn’t. But their spirit — the patience, the care, the meaning — those shouldn’t vanish. Look at Japan after the war — they rebuilt, but they kept their culture, their honor, their tea ceremonies. They changed, but they didn’t forget.”

Jack: “And now they struggle with modernity, with birth rates falling, youth drifting into digital lives. Every tradition that survives too long becomes a burden.”

Jeeny: “Or a root. And without roots, Jack, even the strongest tree falls when the storm comes.”

Host: The air grew tense, the sound of the rain now drowned by their voices. Jeeny’s eyes were wet, but steady; Jack’s jaw was tight, a storm of reason fighting emotion.

Jack: “So what, Jeeny? You’d have us live in the past, worship the ashes instead of building new fires?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I’d have us remember that fire has a source. That flame came from a spark — from meaning, from love, from the desire to belong. If we forget that, our change becomes just motion, not growth.”

Jack: “You always find a way to romanticize decay.”

Jeeny: “And you always find a way to justify emptiness.”

Host: The candle finally went out, its smoke curling into the air like a spirit leaving the body. The darkness between them was real, but not hostile — it was a moment of truth, heavy and wordless.

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe we’re both right, Jack. Change is natural — I can’t deny that. But so is the longing to hold on to what matters.”

Jack: “Maybe. Maybe the secret is in knowing which leaves to let fall, and which to keep pressed between the pages.”

Jeeny: “Yes… The pages of our memory.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s what Dante meant — not that change erases, but that it renews. The old leaves feed the roots of the new.”

Host: The rain began to fade, and a thin silver light from the street crept through the window, touching their faces like the first hint of forgiveness.

They sat in silence, two souls beneath the turning wheel of time, watching the leaves fall — and for the first time, they both understood that change wasn’t the enemy of memory, but its continuation.

Host: Outside, the wind shifted, carrying the smell of wet earth and coffee. The city breathed, alive in its motion, its cycles, its letting go.

And beneath that moving world, two hearts beat quietly, in the rhythm of acceptance — for even as leaves fall, new ones always come.