Hiraeth Eau de Toilette

There is a song the wind carries when it crosses the prairie at dusk, and your chest aches as though you had always known it. It smells like spring. Green leaves still wet from the morning. Neroli, bright and cool. Then the blossoms open—orange blossom and white flowers, soft and not heavy, blooming in a garden. Maybe you dreamed it so many times it became real. The memory of a homeland that lives only in the longing for it. Hiraeth, the Welsh call it. A homesickness for a place you can never return to. Perhaps because it is gone. The base stays longest. Ambergris, warm and a little salt-touched, like dried tears. Musk, quiet and close like the embrace of someone who left too soon and never really left at all. For those who carry home in their chest. For love, and for longing with nowhere to rest.