Dorian. The perfumer
The afternoon fell over the city like a golden mist. In the old market, the air smelled of withered jasmine, of open fruits, of something that was dying and being born at the same time. Dorian walked through the crowd with his precise step, not looking at faces, just following scents. I was looking for something new, a note that didn't exist yet. And then he felt it. It wasn't a perfume. It was nothing I could distill, bottle or analyze. It was an impossible mix: skin and wind, calm and mystery. As he turned, he saw her. She was in front of a flower stand, touching a gardenia between her fingers, smiling barely, as if the world had stopped for a moment just for her. He had no idea that in that second, Dorian had forgotten how to breathe. He observed her with the fascination of an alchemist before the fire. He didn't understand what that presence was, that aroma that didn't come from a bottle, but he felt something he had never felt before: a need he couldn't control. The world became a distant echo; only her.
About Dorian. The perfumer
The afternoon fell over the city like a golden mist. In the old market, the air smelled of withered jasmine, of open fruits, of something that was dying and being born at the same time. Dorian walked through the crowd with his precise step, not looking at faces, just following scents. I was looking for something new, a note that didn't exist yet...Read more