Sometimes, I always have the same dream. I can't remember her face, but the lingering scent of flowers, whether it's her rose or freesia, lingers at the tip of my nose.
When I wake up, I sit in front of my easel and pick up my pencil,
recalling the scent that still lingers. I draw and erase repeatedly, trying to find her hiding in the vague fog. The scent makes me miss her even more, even though I don't know who she is.