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In the silence of ruined sanctuaries, something stirs.
Ghost of the Temple is a spectral veil of sacred smoke and moonlit stone, a tribute to what still lingers when the rituals have long ended. Resinous tendrils of frankincense and myrrh drift through cool marble halls, wreathed in the softness of white sandalwood and the chill hush of iris and orris. A touch of violet leaf brushes against dry stone and shadowed prayer, whispering secrets once etched into temple walls. This is no scent for the living alone—it calls to memory, to myth, to mystery. You do not wear it. You are haunted by it.
In the silence of ruined sanctuaries, something stirs.
Ghost of the Temple is a spectral veil of sacred smoke and moonlit stone, a tribute to what still lingers when the rituals have long ended. Resinous tendrils of frankincense and myrrh drift through cool marble halls, wreathed in the softness of white sandalwood and the chill hush of iris and orris. A touch of violet leaf brushes against dry stone and shadowed prayer, whispering secrets once etched into temple walls. This is no scent for the living alone—it calls to memory, to myth, to mystery. You do not wear it. You are haunted by it.