THE SCENT OF HER
210 Words
Chapter Ten
The Scent of Her
Spring softened everything. The air was warmer, sweeter, full of scents that clung to the skin — jasmine, earth, the early bloom of tulips. But for Julian, nothing compared to the scent that lingered in his memory and on his sheets: her.
He had taken dozens of photos — never staged, never posed. Just Leah in her natural light: trimming petals, hands dusted with pollen, laughing barefoot in the doorway, sunlight filtering through her hair. She had become his quiet obsession, not as a subject, but as something… sacred.
He printed the best of them, framed each one, and displayed them in a gallery two towns over. A friend from New York offered to help exhibit them. It wasn’t about acclaim. It was about honoring what had healed him.
He titled the collection: The Scent of Her.
When Leah saw it, her throat caught. She walked the gallery slowly, stopping at one photo — her back turned, head tilted slightly, a lily pressed to her nose.
She looked at Julian, eyes glassy.
“You see me,” she whispered.
“I do,” he said, and kissed her temple gently.
Outside, the rain fell again — but this time, it smelled like a beginning.
- Writer
