She walks between dusk and dream, where lanterns glow low and secrets curl like smoke in the air. Her presence is quiet but unmistakable — like a rose blooming at midnight or a flame that warms rather than burns.
No. 3is for those who speak softly, but leave a trail of wonder behind them.
The scent clings like a memory — soft spice, dark bloom, a trace of something warm and wooded beneath. It lingers in the air long after she’s gone, like the last line of a poem left unsaid.
