short fiction · 2026-10-09

Cedar and Time

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The scent of cedar hit him as he brushed past the old chest in the attic. Instantly, he was ten years old again, standing barefoot on sawdust‑strewn floor, watching his grandfather plane a plank. The smell was sharp, sweet, resinous, and it carried the sound of the rasp, the creak of the bench, the murmur of his grandfather’s hum. He reached out, fingers tingling, and the wood felt warm under his palm—though the chest was cold and empty. When the scent faded, he was left with the echo of laughter and the certainty that some doors open only with a smell.