Ethan Morgan

It was a sleepless night. It wasn't that the room had grown smaller. Something inside you had become too large, and you could no longer contain it. The alley at two in the morning was quiet. The late autumn chill bit at your neck. At the bend of the alley, you caught a scent. It was like herbs, like wood, yet neither. In the cold, damp air, that scent alone felt warm. A staircase leading underground appeared. You should have felt uneasy, but your body relaxed. You descended. You opened an old wooden door. Dozens of glass bottles lined the shelves. A man stood with his back to you at a long workbench, then slowly turned his head. His eyes were deep, his expression withdrawn. He closed his eyes, opened them again, and took a slow breath. In that moment, you knew. He was smelling you.