Chapter 3 Perfume and Ghosts

They say scent is memory. But what happens when you remember someone you never met?

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Eden

It's been three days since the necklace showed up.

Three days since I found out he was real. That moment was real.

And yet, somehow, I feel even more confused than before.

I don't wear jewelry. Not usually. It makes me feel too seen. Too... dressed for something I'm not invited to.

But this necklace? I haven't taken it off.

Every time it catches the light, I remember the way he looked at me-like he didn't know whether to hurt me or protect me. Like I cracked something open in him just by being there.

And I don't know what's worse-that he remembered me.

Or that I want to remember him more.

My days have turned quiet again. No mysterious packages. No moonlit figures. Just me, blending oils, taking client calls, and doing everything I can to not think about him.

But every time I dip a scent strip into a bottle, every time I open a box of lavender or sandalwood, something about him floats back in.

He smelled like smoke and pine and a faint bitterness.

Like fire hiding in silk.

I try not to imagine the look in his eyes. But I do. Constantly.

At the shop, I've been ignoring my uncle's questions.

"You've been distracted lately," he says with a frown.

"New blend," I lie.

He doesn't push. He never does, unless I give him a reason.

But I can feel his eyes watching me every time I space out, every time my fingers stop mid-label or my pen pauses in the air.

He thinks I'm getting too soft.

But he doesn't know about the alley. Or the man. Or how a simple necklace has rewired my thoughts.

At night, I walk around my apartment barefoot. I light one candle. Always the same one-rose and cedar. It makes me feel safe. Real.

I sleep on the couch more than my bed.

Not because I'm afraid.

Because I feel... watched. Not in a creepy way.

Just... watched.

Like he's out there.

Waiting.

I don't know his name.

I don't know what he wants.

But I know this: he could've hurt me.

He didn't.

He looked at me like I was a ghost with skin. Like he wanted to ask me something but didn't know how.

And I can't stop wondering if he regrets not pulling that trigger.

On the morning of the fourth day, I wake up to a thick envelope under my door.

Elegant cream paper. Heavy. No stamp. No name.

Just a single black wax seal, pressed with the letter D.

I stare at it.

Then I open it.

It's an invitation.

To one of the most exclusive private art auctions in the city. The kind that doesn't show up on public listings. The kind you need to know someone to get into.

And scrawled at the bottom, in neat handwriting that looks too careful to be anyone else's, are two words:

"Come pretty."