No one remembers who planted the pear tree. It blooms every May.
"Woke to the sun. It is noon on the clock, and there is absolutely no need to rush."
You wake at noon — not to an alarm; there isn't one: the sun has reached the pillow and strikes your eyes through the pear tree. The tree is old, taller than the roof. Nobody prunes it, nobody remembers who planted it — yet every May it blooms as if it had someone to bloom for. The room is the same as when you were eight: the wooden frame, the warm clay of the wall. A thin vanilla drifts in from the kitchen — though you clearly remember being home alone. You lie with your eyes closed and listen to the yard living on its own: a bucket by the standpipe, pigeons on the roof, the wind sorting through white petals. You were supposed to be somewhere… no. Nowhere at all. Ninety-two days ahead, and no one in the world knows where you are. The track of days is lost. And you do not follow it.
Opening
Sparkling with a faint bitterness — like light striking the eyes through leaves: citrus peel, spice, a dark rum-coffee glint.
Heart
A white cloud: blossom against the sun, petals and powder, air you could drink.
Drydown
Velvet: cocoa powder, warm skin, a vanilla haze — lasting till evening, close to the body.
A molecule of tactile warmth and woody powder. It recreates the feel of a sun-warmed clay wall, the dry wood of the old pear tree, and the soft texture of fabric where a petal has landed.
The beam reaches the pillow by noon. No alarm needed.
The tree has been shedding for two weeks — and the bloom never thins.
The days of the week got mixed up yesterday. Nobody noticed. Including you.
formula N° 167 · blended by hand · Bishkek
By three, the pear tree's shadow reaches the porch. You carry an old chair out under it, set your cup on the railing — petals land right in the tea, and you don't fish them out. No one calls you from the house. You are not going anywhere today.
