Chapter 4. A stream of memories

Antoine paused, considering for a moment, then smiled. "You win, Camille Dubois. Leather does sound much more fitting." He typed rapidly into the keyboard. "'Muse,' add a touch of classic leather oil—rich, warm, and mysterious."

The deep voice of "Muse" echoed, as if part of some hidden ritual: “Acknowledged. Adding leather oil…”

Their workdays were filled with tension at times, but also joy. Camille gradually relaxed, rekindling the excitement and passion she thought she had lost forever. Antoine, with his youthful creativity and energy, also displayed an unexpected sensitivity and finesse. He learned to listen to Camille—not just with his ears but with his heart.

One day, while working on a scent for “Champs-Élysées at Sunset,” Camille nearly gave up. She wanted to recreate the bustling, elegant atmosphere of the iconic avenue, infused with a sense of nostalgia and romance as the streetlights flickered on. Yet, she wasn’t satisfied with the current formula.

“Something’s missing… a special note that evokes a stream of memories…” Camille murmured, her delicate brows furrowing.

“A stream of memories?” Antoine repeated, curiosity lighting his gaze.

Camille remained silent for a moment, then looked directly at Antoine. “Have you ever stood on the Champs-Élysées at sunset? When the last rays of sunlight glint off the cobblestones, and the crowds still hurry along? It feels like time is both slowing down and rushing by…”

"I can’t smell it..." she continued, her voice almost a whisper, “But I still vividly remember that essence... the crisp chill in the air, the scent of coffee drifting from Les Deux Magots, the faint perfume of a woman passing by…”

She took a deep breath, trying to grasp at the fading memories. “But there’s something else... a fragrance so gentle, yet warm... I just can’t place it.”

Seeing Camille’s determined yet frustrated expression, Antoine suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to help her. He stood up and walked toward the bookshelf, where Laurent Dubois had spent countless hours lost in the world of scents.

“There are many rare oils here. Maybe one of them holds what you need,” he said, his fingers gliding over the worn labels. Suddenly, a small glass bottle caught his eye. Its silver cap had tarnished with time, engraved with the words “Miel de Tilleul - 1998.”

As the days of working together passed, Camille continued to loosen up, rediscovering the joy and passion she once thought were lost. Antoine, alongside his youthful creativity, revealed a surprising depth of sensitivity. He learned to listen to Camille, not just with his ears but with his heart.

During one particular test session for "Champs-Élysées at Sunset," Camille had almost given up. She sought to capture the lively, elegant ambiance of the famous street, yet tinged with nostalgia as the streetlights flickered to life. Still, she wasn’t satisfied with the formula.

Camille moved deftly through the fragrance-filled room, her slender fingers dancing gracefully over the mixing table. Amongst the shimmering bottles of essential oils, she was like a master conductor, trying to harmonize the most delicate scent notes for her personal symphony.

“Bergamot… it needs more sharpness and freshness,” she murmured, carefully adding a golden drop of oil into a glass beaker. “Patchouli… let’s give it a hint of mystery and elegance.”

The room filled with the warm, woody aroma of patchouli, mixed with the playful tang of bergamot, evoking the bustling yet refined air of the City of Lights.

Yet Camille’s brows furrowed, dissatisfaction evident in her deep blue eyes.

Sitting across the table, Antoine watched Camille intently, his gaze filled with admiration. Even though “Muse” could analyze millions of scent data points and replicate any formula in an instant, watching Camille work was a completely different experience.

It wasn’t just technique—it was instinct, emotion, and the heart and soul she poured into every drop of essential oil. Antoine thought to himself, it was no coincidence that people like Camille were called "artisans."

Noticing the change in her expression, he spoke up: "What’s wrong, Camille? ‘Muse’ is giving us great results; this formula is nearly identical to the most popular perfume in 1920s Paris.”

Camille sighed and placed the glass vial on the table. "It’s still not right, Antoine,” she said, her voice tinged with disappointment. “I want something truly special, a fragrance that makes people remember this avenue forever. This is just a replica—it’s missing its soul.”

"Soul?" Antoine echoed, a little surprised. It was the first time he’d heard someone talk about the soul of a scent. But quickly, he began to understand how Camille perceived fragrances.

"You mean…" he hesitated.

"What I mean is… every street has its own story," Camille interrupted, her gaze distant as she stared out the window. “Champs-Élysées at sunset isn’t just about bright lights and luxury shops. It’s about the hurried crowds after work, lovers strolling beneath the trees, street musicians playing their guitars… all of it creates a continuous, gentle stream of memories.”

"A stream of memories?" Antoine whispered, as if absorbing a secret.

Camille nodded, her eyes gleaming. "I want to recreate that with a scent. The scent of history, of life... a note that can evoke both emotions and nostalgia in anyone."

She bent over the mixing table again, her hands moving swiftly among the tiny bottles of oil. But this time, her face no longer showed the earlier impatience. Instead, it was filled with intense concentration and a hint of anticipation.

Antoine held his breath as he watched. He knew a masterpiece was about to be born.

Camille closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, as if trying to inhale all of Paris into her chest. The fragrance of Champs-Élysées at sunset... the elegant scent of Damask roses from the flower shop nearby, the sweet, tempting aroma of macarons from the famous Ladurée, mixed with a touch of luxurious face powder from the chic Parisian ladies.

But... something was still missing. There was a mysterious piece, an elusive fragment needed to complete this olfactory painting.

Antoine quietly observed Camille. He didn’t want to disturb her thoughts, yet the more he looked at her, the more captivated he became by the concentration and passion written clearly across her face.