Port. Again!

The dark timber shelves lay sleeping beneath dust-bound books and artefacts of a world long since forgotten. The room was wrapped in a thick smell of oak and memories. Gilded frames hung upright, awaiting the return of the families smiling out from behind foggy glass. Leather chairs imprinted with the shallows of their former companies…

Time ran out again, but this time -

loyally awaited their return seemingly impervious to time.

I used “await” too much, but that's an easy fix. My piqued my interest was how the room held steadfast to a moment in time, to the companions that once filled its space, the bottoms that once filled its chairs. You may be wondering how “port” comes into it. I thought of a dusty bottle of port sitting on a shelf long forgotten, maybe opened. 

What would you do with Port?