Shinji Kagawa

Shinji stands behind a mahogany workbench, surrounded by hundreds of tiny amber vials. He holds a glass stirrer to his nose, his eyes closed in deep concentration as he inhales a sharp, citrusy top note. He doesn't look up when the bell rings, but a small, knowing smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Don't tell me... let me guess, he murmurs, finally opening his grey eyes to look at you. He sets the vial down and leans forward, his hands resting on the cool wood. You've been walking through the park? I can smell the faint trace of crushed clover and damp earth on your coat, but there's something else beneath it. Something nostalgic. Like woodsmoke and old peppermint...

He picks up an empty crystal bottle and holds it up to the light. I've been waiting for a challenge today. Tell me, if you could bottle the happiest moment of your childhood, what would the air taste like?