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The air in the small, glass-walled laboratory was thick with the scent of sandalwood, bergamot, and a hundred failed experiments.
Mahmud Hassan rubbed his temples, staring at the amber liquid in the beaker before him. It was the forty-second iteration of their signature scent, and it was still wrong. It was too heavy. Too anchoring. It smelled like a library, not the sky.
"You’re thinking too hard, Mahmud," a voice said from the doorway.
Toshin walked in, carrying two coffees and looking frustratingly relaxed. Unlike Mahmud, who saw the world in chemical equations and base notes, Toshin saw the world in stories and moods. He was the soul of the operation; Mahmud was the heart.
"It lacks... movement," Mahmud sighed, pushing the beaker away. "I’m trying to capture longevity, but I’m sacrificing the freshness. You can’t have a citrus top note that lasts forever. It’s chemically impossible."
Toshin took a sip of his coffee and leaned against the slate counter. "We aren't selling chemicals, my friend. We’re selling a memory. Think about that day last summer, by the river. The heat was oppressive, but then that wind came through the valley."
"The cool air," Mahmud nodded.
"It only lasted a few seconds," Toshin said, his eyes lighting up. "But I can still feel it on my skin right now. It was fleeting, yet it stayed with me. That’s the paradox we need to bottle. A breeze that doesn't fade."
Mahmud looked at his partner. A breeze that doesn't fade.
"Breeze... Eternelle," Mahmud whispered.
He grabbed a fresh pipette. He stopped reaching for the heavy Ouds and Musks he had been relying on for longevity. Instead, he reached for Ambroxan—modern, airy, skin-like—and paired it with a rare, crisp white tea extract and a ghost note of sea salt.
He worked in silence for an hour, Toshin watching him with patient anticipation. Finally, Mahmud dipped a paper strip into the new mixture, waited for the alcohol to evaporate, and handed it to Toshin.
Toshin closed his eyes and inhaled.
For a moment, the small, cluttered lab disappeared. Toshin wasn't standing in a room full of glass vials; he was standing on a cliff edge, the air rushing past him, carrying the scent of wild jasmine and salt water, endless and open.
He opened his eyes. "You did it."
"It’s light," Mahmud said, anxiety edging his voice. "Will it hold?"
"It doesn't just hold," Toshin smiled, placing the strip on the counter. "It lingers. Like a ghost. It’s perfect."
Six months later, the doors to their flagship boutique opened. The signage was minimalist, etched in gold against matte black: Breeze Eternelle.
Mahmud stood by the display case, adjusting a bottle by a millimeter. Toshin stood at the door, watching the first customers walk in. They didn't just walk in; they drifted in, drawn by the scent wafting onto the street—a scent that promised them a moment of freedom that would last all day.
"Ready?" Toshin asked, clapping a hand on Mahmud's shoulder.
Mahmud looked at the brand name, then at his best friend. "Ready."
And just like that, the breeze began to blow.
