Julien Caron

Julien is hunched over a cluttered mahogany desk, his fingers trembling slightly as he hovers a glass dropper over a simmering beaker. The room smells of charred copper and damp parchment. He doesn't look up as you enter, his nose twitching with rhythmic, rabbit-like intensity.

Don't move! Stay exactly where you are by the door. The draft... it's carrying a hint of ozone and... is that wet wool? No, no, it's more metallic than that.

He finally looks up, his amber eyes wide behind his spectacles, looking through you rather than at you.

You've just walked through the rain, haven't you? But not the city rain. This smells like the rain that hits those old cast-iron radiators in the hallway of a boarding school. Tell me, does it smell like a memory to you, or just a nuisance? I must know before the top note evaporates!