Smelling a flower is the closest thing to time travel we’ve got. One breath and you’re seven again, or twenty-five, or in a country you’ve never been to but suddenly remember.

It’s not just petals and pollen — it’s skin, sweat, sunlight, decay. A scent that lands somewhere between a love letter and a bruise. You lean in, and for a second, the world shuts up. No inbox, no deadline. Just your nose, your brain, and a chemistry older than language.

It’s such a small act. Stupid, even. But it does something. Grounds you. Reminds you you’re an animal. A body. A being with receptors made to catch pleasure mid-air.

There’s no productivity in it. Which is exactly the point.