A Scented Story

At the end of the silent rocky slope, where the afternoon sun often tilts like a whisper, there is a small incense shop sleeping in the middle of the street. The wooden sign is faded, only the word “Hương” remains, italicized in a blurred brown ink, as if someone hastily wrote it on an old day.

No house number. No social media. No advertising. But people still come, as if there is a thin thread in the wind, quietly pulling them back.

They say this place doesn’t just sell incense – it also preserves fragments of memories that have flown away. Things that cannot be named, but still exist – in a scent.

The shop owner is a skinny young man with slightly tangled hair on his forehead, who lives alone in an attic with his gray cat named Mua. Every morning, he makes tea, puts on some old music, and begins mixing the scents. On high wooden shelves are countless amber glass bottles. No formulas. No samples. He mixes the scents by memory and feeling – and names them with emotions.

“For the June afternoon you forgot to call.”
“The smell of the old shoulder of the person who once hugged you when you were tired.”

One early winter morning, the girl walked in.

The first time she came, she just stood for a long time by the shelf, her hand lightly touching a few bottles as if searching for something among the layers of incense. When she spoke, her voice was very small:

“Can you create the smell of things that haven't happened yet?”

He looked up, surprised. Then he just nodded. No words. He turned away, selecting a few essential oils: a touch of powdery iris, a drop of spicy dried ginger, a touch of warm, sweet labdanum. When the scent was complete, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

“Not exactly… but close,” she said, almost whispering.

From that day on, every Tuesday afternoon she came by. Didn't ask to buy anything. Didn't say much. Just sat by the window, closed her eyes, and smelled each handwritten bottle of incense.

One time, she said: there were afternoons when she couldn’t remember what she did, but she remembered very clearly the scent on her collar. A person who loved her – but didn’t stay with her until the end.

Then one day, she didn't come anymore.

He continued to mix the perfume. But on the shelf, there was a new bottle – smaller than all the others. The label was a folded piece of paper, bearing the words:

“Things that have not been accomplished.”

He never mixed that scent again. But every time it rained, the room would faintly smell of the day she sat by the window – eyes half-closed, the wind blowing very gently, and time standing still.