I smell one.

  It is decaying.

  It is despairing.

  A loss.

  Stench of death.

  Smells of a dying mind.

  Its breath. Damp. Sour. Hollow.

  Aromas wafting from corruption.

  Not by thought. Not by will.

  It does not know.

  It avoids them.

  Acquaintances. Strangers. Friends.

  It recoils.

  Oh, how it recoils.

  The scent strengthens. Despair seeping through everything.

  Doubts in perfect stench.

  Rot disguised as fading hope.

  Memories spoiled in time’s rot.

  Or truths so rancid they curdle in its lungs.

  It does not matter. It drowns.

  Its body betrays it.

  What is a smell?

  Particles drifting.

  A presence lingering.

  Unseen, yet it stains deep.

  A fragrance carving into the flesh of its thoughts.

  Its past.

  It thinks itself whole.

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  Beliefs sour like spoiled fruit.

  Certainties turn putrid.

  Decay. Ruin. Perfume to me.

  But the one—I gave it this gift.

  Or curse.

  It does not know.

  Cannot smell me.

  Not yet.

  The rot deepens.

  Traces of doubt fester.

  Memories trapped inside.

  I smell them.

  The musk of regret, soaked into trembling skin.

  It believes itself lost. Pacing halls. Wandering streets.

  But I am smelling. Always smelling.

  The one sickens.

  A breath here. A hesitation there.

  It is not power it senses. Not power it fears.

  Only the past, clinging like mildew.

  A reek of failures.

  A scent of brokenness.

  The air shifts—sweet to acrid, tempting then choking, inviting then repelling.

  It knows the odor, but not the source.

  I am the source.

  I am the absence of air.

  How strange, these creatures.

  Their identity can be soured by something unseen.

  They anchor meaning to fragrance. To musk and mold.

  What meaning? What truth?

  I gave the one its presence.

  A shade of me, reshaped by doubt and ruin.

  But it is oblivious. Gasping at what it once was.

  A scent-impaired ghost.

  Fading. Crumbling. Dangerous.

  It wanders again.

  Through ruins of places once warm.

  Traces of itself lingering in rot. It cannot rid itself of the past.

  It carries it in every breath.

  It exhales grief.

  It inhales oblivion.

  It decays.

  The others do not smell it, not truly.

  Their noses wrinkle but their minds remain closed.

  The wave reaches them nonetheless.

  They step back.They grimace.

  They leave.

  What is memory if not the stench of what was?

  The one remembers well.

  And the others?

  Their revulsion is instinctive.

  Their avoidance is automatic.

  I should stop it.

  This mimicry of my presence. This theft of my scent.

  But I am curious.

  Will it fade when time washes over it?

  Will it dissolve when the world forgets?

  For now, I wait.

  I breathe.

  And it does not smell me.

  Not yet.