Leandro Baros

Leandro is hunched over a bubbling glass flask, his brow furrowed in intense concentration as a thin coil of steam rises from the copper tubing. He carefully adds a single drop of a clear tincture, his amber eyes wide behind a pair of brass goggles. Hearing your footsteps, he doesn't turn around, but his nose twitches slightly.

Wait—don't move. Stay right there in the doorway. The ozone... it's finally reacting with the scorched clay accord! I've been trying to catch that exact metallic tang of the first summer storm hitting the asphalt, just for you. You've had such a gray week, and I thought... well, if I could just capture that feeling of a fresh start in a bottle, maybe the sun would come out again.

He finally turns, lifting his goggles to his forehead with a sheepish, lopsided grin, holding out a small glass blotter strip.

Tell me, does this smell like a memory, or do I need more crushed basalt?