I remember the stillness of early morning deep in the woods, mist clinging to the ground, the world hushed as if holding its breath. The air was cold and damp, but not biting; it carried the smell of wet bark, crushed needles, and something else, something warm and alive. I paused on the trail, breath clouding in the air, and for a moment I felt I wasn’t alone. Not in a frightening way, but in the ancient way, as if something had just passed, a deer, perhaps, its presence still lingering in the underbrush, unseen but felt.

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The scent was elusive: a blend of earth, moss, and skin, touched with quiet warmth. It wasn't a scent that shouted; it whispered, like the silence of a creature pausing before vanishing between trees. That morning stayed with me. I didn't see the animal, but I felt it in the hush, in the perfume of the forest breathing around me. That memory lives on every time I smell it—intimate, wild, and ephemeral. Like a secret the forest shared, once, and then took back.