Пахнеш

There are smells that cannot be confused. They do not come from a bottle or a laundry room - they come from memory. Warm, poignant, with a hint of something that can never be recovered. Love that remains in the air even when everything else has disappeared. The room is dark, a voice is reflected on the glass - a little muffled, a little from another time. And it seems that this voice can be touched, inhaled, dissolved in it.

Love here is not loud or ostentatious - it is like a soft trace on the skin after a touch, like a scent that cannot be aired out. A taste of that very miracle for which, it seems, it is worth enduring all the other seasons.