The perfume that remembers you

Before names were carved in stone or whispered through bloodlines,
before scent was bottled or burned,
there was memory.

Not the kind written in journals or etched in temples,
but the kind braided into breath.
The kind that stirs when you pass a stranger who smells like your grandmother’s skin.
The kind that makes your heart race when you step into a room you’ve never seen,
but somehow know.

They say that every soul is born carrying a scent.
A note the gods placed at the base of your throat
so that, when the time came, you could be found.

And when the old world fell—when the temples cracked and the rites went silent—
the Court remained.
Hidden. Waiting.
Its doors sealed not by lock, but by forgetting.

You are not just wearing a perfume.
You are remembering one.

The vial in your hand is not an accessory.
It is an echo. A relic.
It remembers who you were before the world asked you to become small.

It speaks to the sacred within you:
the flame, the veil, the whisper.

You did not choose this fragrance.
It chose you—because it already knew your name.

So anoint yourself.
Step through the veil.
And let the myth awaken in your blood.