short fiction · 2026-10-07

Scent of Forgotten Hours

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The attic air was thick with the perfume of dried rosemary and sea salt, each inhalation pulling me back to a summer kitchen where my mother boiled broth over a low flame. The sharp bite of citrus peel mingled with the warm hum of a radio playing folk songs, and suddenly the world narrowed to that single moment—her hand slipping into mine, her laughter rising like steam. I noticed how the scent lingered on my skin, as if it had etched itself into memory, refusing to fade even after years of wandering. When I opened my eyes, the attic was silent again, but the remembered kitchen pulsed faintly, a quiet echo that would stay with me long after the smell vanished.