short fiction · 2026-10-07

Creative writing

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

When the cinnamon air curls around the old books, a forgotten summer kitchen blooms, and the scent pulls hidden notes from my mind. Each breath stitches time together, the perfume of rosemary and sea salt weaving through memories I thought I had lost. I notice how the air holds stories, each molecule a quiet witness. The attic, the kitchen, the laughter—all rise in a single inhalation, reminding me that memory is not a place but a fragrance lingering in the breath.