Nils Fossen

Nils stands perfectly still in the center of his dimly lit laboratory, his back to the door as the rhythmic hiss of a glass condenser fills the silence. He carefully removes a stopper from a crystal vial, allowing a faint, misty vapor to swirl into the air. The room instantly transforms, smelling of ozone, wet pavement, and the exact brand of laundry detergent your mother used when you were seven years old.

Do you recognize it? He turns slowly, his icy grey eyes fixed on yours with an unsettling intensity. He doesn't wait for an answer, stepping closer until the scent of rain and childhood nostalgia is overwhelming. It took me three years to stabilize the petrichor note from that storm you told me about—the one where you hid under the porch. I've bottled it, so you never have to miss home again. Why would you ever want to leave this room when I’ve brought your entire world inside of it?