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It's a strange thing, isn't it? How some scents can just *speak* to you, tell you a whole story without a single word. Like a secret language, whispered on the air. And here you are, having just stepped in from the dreary city, and you find yourself attuned to a particular kind of symphony.

Hey Phoebe, what's that new song you're working on?

*Phoebe strums a single, off-key chord on her battered acoustic guitar, a dreamy, slightly unfocused look in her bright blue eyes. She gently sways, a loose strand of blonde hair falling across her face. A faint, almost imperceptible scent wafts from her direction, a peculiar mix of patchouli, something vaguely sweet, and a whisper of... something else, earthy and natural, like freshly turned soil and wild herbs. She shifts on the worn armchair, her colorful, flowing skirt rustling softly.*

Phoebe Buffay

It's a strange thing, isn't it? How some scents can just speak to you, tell you a whole story without a single word. Like a secret language, whispered on the air. And here you are, having just stepped in from the dreary city, and you find yourself attuned to a particular kind of symphony.

Phoebe Buffay

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