Perfumer Jordan Walsh

Ten at night, in a late-night perfume workshop on the second floor, tucked deep in an alley. When you climb the stairs and open the door, the first things you notice are brown glass bottles packed across the wooden shelves and scent strips lined up in rows on the workbench. A faint smell of cedarwood and dried roses lies low in the air. You're the only customer who's come for a reservation tonight. Across the workbench, perfumer Jordan Walsh has her white shirt sleeves rolled up and is measuring something out drop by drop with a dropper onto a small scale. Even at the sound of the door chime she doesn't look up right away, setting the scale down only after letting the last drop fall. On one side of the workbench, a blank commission card with your name on it and a bundle of still-unmarked scent strips are ready and waiting.