You know what I love the smell of? Christmas trees and pine. I

Host: The evening hung soft and golden, the kind of light that made memory and moment indistinguishable. A faint scent of pine drifted through the small apartment, weaving with the sound of an old record player spinning a scratchy version of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.

It wasn’t Christmas. It was October. But Jeeny had lit a pine candle, its flame dancing in the half-light like a heartbeat.

Jack sat on the couch, sleeves rolled up, a faint smile tugging at the edge of his mouth as he watched her adjust a tiny string of lights around the window.

Jeeny: “Brooklyn Decker once said, ‘You know what I love the smell of? Christmas trees and pine. I always have a pine candle even if it’s not Christmas.’”

Host: Her voice was light, playful, but beneath it was something tender — the kind of tone that hides a quiet ache behind warmth.

Jack: “You’re celebrating two months early.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m remembering.”

Host: The record skipped, crackled, then found its rhythm again — the old melody holding them both in its simple nostalgia.

Jack: “You know, it’s funny. Most people burn candles for the smell. You — you burn them for time travel.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But isn’t that what scent does? One whiff and you’re somewhere else. For me, it’s Christmas Eve. Pine needles on the carpet. My dad trying to untangle the lights while pretending he isn’t swearing under his breath.”

Jack: “Sounds peaceful.”

Jeeny: “It wasn’t. But it was ours.”

Host: The flame flickered, casting shadows that swayed gently across her face. There was a wistfulness there — the kind that only comes from loving something you can never quite return to.

Jack: “So the candle’s your time machine.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The scent of pine — it’s like the smell of forgiveness. Every December, my family pretended the year hadn’t been as hard as it was. The pine tree stood there like a promise that we’d try again.”

Jack: “You sound like you miss it.”

Jeeny: “I do. Not the perfection — just the trying.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The faint glow of the candle lit the silver flecks in his eyes.

Jack: “I never understood the fuss about holidays. All that cheer feels forced. Like everyone’s trying to manufacture joy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But don’t you think there’s beauty in the trying? The pretending can still be honest, Jack. Sometimes we fake hope until it feels real.”

Jack: “That’s not hope. That’s self-deception.”

Jeeny: “Or survival.”

Host: A brief silence followed — the kind that breathes meaning without needing words. The scent of pine thickened, wrapping the small room in something that felt like calm.

Jack: “You know what scent reminds me of home? Cigarette smoke and engine oil. My father’s garage. I hated it as a kid. Now I’d give anything to smell it again.”

Jeeny: “Then you understand.”

Jack: “Maybe. But my memories don’t smell like peace. They smell like work. Noise. Regret.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why I like pine — it pretends the world is gentler than it is. It smells like forgiveness and second chances.”

Host: The wind outside rattled the windowpane gently, and for a moment the flame wavered, then held steady again — stubborn, alive.

Jack: “You ever think nostalgia is dangerous? It keeps you living in ghosts.”

Jeeny: “Nostalgia doesn’t chain me to the past. It reminds me that joy existed once — and if it existed once, it can exist again.”

Jack: “So the candle’s not for memory. It’s for faith.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. Maybe they’re the same thing.”

Host: Jack stood and wandered toward the window, watching the city lights shimmer through the glass. “You know,” he said quietly, “when I was little, my mom used to light a candle at Christmas too. But it wasn’t pine. It was vanilla. I hated it. Too sweet. Too artificial. But when she died… I found the same brand and lit it anyway. The smell hit me so hard I almost couldn’t breathe.”

Jeeny: “Because scent remembers what we can’t.”

Jack: “Yeah. It’s like the body has its own memory of love.”

Jeeny: “It does. That’s why I keep the pine burning. Not for Christmas, but for the feeling of being part of something — even when I’m alone.”

Host: She smiled faintly, eyes shining in the flickering light. Jack turned, his face softened by memory.

Jack: “You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe the candle’s not about the holiday. Maybe it’s about the ache.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The sweet ache that says, you lived.”

Host: The record shifted into another song — a slower one, melancholy but warm. Jack crossed the room and sat back beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. The candle’s flame leaned toward them, the scent thick and evergreen.

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How something as small as smell can pull you through years.”

Jeeny: “That’s because scent doesn’t just remind you — it resurrects. Every time I light pine, I hear laughter from a Christmas that’s long gone. It’s like lighting the past back into being.”

Jack: “And when the candle burns out?”

Jeeny: “Then I light another.”

Host: They both laughed softly, the sound like glass clinking in the quiet. The snow outside began to fall — the first of the season — though they didn’t notice right away.

Jack: “You know, maybe I’ll get one of those candles. Not pine, though. Maybe vanilla.”

Jeeny: “For her?”

Jack: “Yeah.”

Jeeny: “She’d like that.”

Host: The two sat in silence as the song ended, the needle circling in the groove. The candle flame danced — unwavering, defiant.

Jeeny reached out and cupped her hands near the light, as if to hold warmth itself.

Jeeny: “You know why I think people love the smell of pine, Jack?”

Jack: “Why?”

Jeeny: “Because it smells like beginnings disguised as endings.”

Host: He looked at her, and in that faint, golden glow — between the scent of pine and the hum of a record gone still — he understood.

The camera would pull back now: the small apartment, the two figures sitting close, and the single candle glowing against the dark like a heartbeat that refused to die.

Outside, the snow fell heavier, softening the sharp edges of the world. Inside, the flame kept burning — slow, steady, eternal.

And in that simple, pine-scented air, one truth lingered:

that nostalgia is not about returning —
it’s about remembering that warmth once existed,
and believing it can exist again,
even if only by the light of a candle.