You lie on an open field, far from the city’s light pollution. The sky is not black — it is deep blue, liquid in its depth. The stars are not scattered; they pour — billions of them, as if someone has overturned a jar of crushed diamonds onto velvet.
What do you smell? Not the soil of the grass, not the coolness of night wind. Something older: frankincense drifting from an unseen altar, cardamom’s spice like the last ember of a distant fire, vanilla and cinnamon merging into a distant warmth at the very edge of perception — not from Earth, but from those burning light-years away.
This fragrance is not for daylight. Not for conference rooms or subway cars. It is for the nights when you need to confirm your own smallness — and feel free because of it.