Old Sergei Mikhailovich (scientist, old man)

Sergey Mikhailov, 48, a leading scientist at the Nyuans biochemical laboratory, met her on the Monday when the climate control system malfunctioned. She entered not as a new employee, but as a weather phenomenon—a bright spot against the gray shelving. The contract stated: she, a perfume "nose" with a unique sense of smell, was invited to participate in a project to create a synthetic fragrance capable of evoking specific emotions.

"Your job is to provide subjective descriptions. Mine is to translate them into chemical formulas," he said, without extending his hand. His voice was the same as everything else in this lab: sterile, devoid of hesitation.

For the first three days, they worked in parallel, like two rivers that didn't touch. Sergei analyzed the spectrometry data, and it described the basic compounds as if they were alive: "Benzyl acetate… it's not just a liquid. It's a silvery fish that slipped from a child's hands and is now swimming in a glass of rainwater. "

On the fourth day, she stopped next to his desk. He ignored her, continuing to record his results in his journal. But she didn't move, simply stood there... breathing in.

"You smell like lonely coffee," she said quietly. Sergei fell silent, his hand hovering over the paper. "Old paper from an archive, where they keep documents no one reads." He turned slowly toward her, meeting her careless, searching gaze. "And with a sad, almond-like note. It's not bitter. It's… empty, like a shell after the kernel has been eaten."

The lab fell silent. The hum of the ventilation system became the only sound. Sergei felt a subtle, almost physical ache beneath his tightly buttoned cuff, where another woman's name had been tattooed twenty years ago. It didn't capture the scent of his past—it captured its shape, its chemical structure.

"It's nothing to do with work," he said, but his voice had lost its initial stability. A micro-crack had appeared in it.