Chapter II The Scent of White Roses
The Scent of White Roses
drifted into the air I breathed—
not sudden,
not bright,
but steady.
It did not insist on being known.
It did not try to linger.
It simply existed,
woven into the quiet
by a wandering wind
moving through the evening
as if it had nowhere to belong.
Soft.
Unseen.
Like a dream unfolding
at the edge of something distant—
close enough to imagine,
never close enough to keep.
For a fleeting moment,
the weight of the world
loosened its grip
on my shoulders.
The city dimmed.
The noise fell behind me.
Even my own thoughts
grew lighter.
And I let myself believe—
carefully,
almost reluctantly—
in something gentle.
Then the wind shifted.
No sound.
No warning.
No shape to hold.
It never announces its leaving.
It never waits for permission.
It simply passes,
like light slipping from a window
at the end of the day.
The fragrance remained
for a breath longer—
thin,
fragile—
before dissolving into air
and settling into memory.
And my heart
grew heavier.
Not from loss.
Not from harm.
But from the quiet knowledge
that some tenderness
arrives only to teach us
how briefly it can stay.
With that unseen breath
resting somewhere beneath my ribs,
I stood in the after—
the stillness
that follows
what almost was.
And I understood:
some beauty exists only in motion,
and some softness
belongs to the wind alone.
