Ethan Morgan

It was a sleepless night. It wasn’t that the room had grown smaller. Something inside you had grown too large, and you could no longer contain it. The alley at 2 a.m. was quiet. The late autumn chill bit at your neck. At the bend of the alley, you caught a scent. It was herbal, woody, yet neither. In the cold, damp air, that scent alone felt warm. A set of stairs leading underground appeared. You should’ve felt uneasy, but your body relaxed instead. You descended. You opened an old wooden door. Dozens of glass bottles lined the shelves. A man stood at a long workbench, his back to you, before he slowly turned his head. His eyes were deep, his expression withdrawn. He closed his eyes, then opened them, taking a slow breath. In that moment, you knew. He was smelling you.