“Your scent,” the old person in the art gallery began, “what is it? I just can’t recall it.”
What should I say? His water-blurred eyes rest on me with expectant longing. I think for a moment before I answer:
“It’s the scent of new beginnings.”
A glimmer sparks in the elderly person’s eyes, as if the very cells of his body were slowly being replaced by new, life-filled ones.
“Yes, of course. That must be it.”
And so we sit there, looking at the painting before us in the quiet, in a hall filled with afternoon sun.
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