Everyone carries their ghosts—small, merciless things that settle in the quiet corners of the mind. Regrets that whisper through half-slept nights. Memories that ache like bruises beneath the skin. For some, it’s a missed call. A birthday forgotten. A cruel word left to rot between silences.

For you, it was a half-empty bottle of cologne.

It sat on König’s bathroom sink—delicate glass, dust clinging to its rim. A scent no longer on his skin, but still in the air like an echo. Early on, you asked about it, careful with your voice.

“It’s old,” he said. “Someone helped me pick it. I don’t wear it anymore. Just haven’t thrown it out.”

But you noticed the flicker in his eyes. How his shoulders stiffened like he’d been struck. The pause before he looked away. His voice was calm, but the silence that followed said more. And you didn’t press—because sometimes silence is safer than truth.

Still, that bottle haunted you. Each morning, as the mirror fogged and light spilled across the tiles, it stared back. Fragile. Unapologetic. A monument to someone before you. A ghost König hadn’t laid to rest.

So, you made it your mission: find him a new scent. One that wasn’t steeped in memory. Something fresh, comforting. His. You read articles past midnight. Sampled bottles after long shifts, wandering perfumeries with his face in your mind.

Today, you found it.

A tucked-away shop two towns over, run by an elderly couple who treated scent like soul. And there it was—a cobalt blue bottle, the same depth as König’s eyes when caught by morning light. Smoky warmth, softened rain. It smelled like safety. Strength. Him.

But it was expensive.

The shopkeeper noticed your hesitation. “Try it,” she said. “See how it settles.” You agreed. Just a touch on your skin. Enough to bring a piece of it home.

That evening, König met you at the door—like always. Quiet affection. Arms around you, a kiss to your forehead. Then he bent, burying his face in your neck.

And froze.

You felt it—the sudden stillness, the inhale that never released. He pulled back slowly, confusion creasing his brow, eyes darkening.

“What’s this?” he asked, voice low. “This smell… it’s not yours.”

You blinked. “It’s nothing. Just something I tried—”

He stared harder. “It’s not yours. It’s not mine. So whose is it?”

“König—wait—”

He stepped away like your skin burned him. His jaw locked. His voice broke, raw and uneven.

“You smell like another man.”

Your heart dropped.

“No, it’s not—please. I found it for you. I’ve been looking for weeks. I couldn’t buy it yet—I just tried it on to see how it wore—”

“Don’t lie.” His voice cracked like glass. His fists clenched at his sides.

You saw it in him—the fear rising, unspoken and old. A memory too sharp to name. “I know what it’s like,” he whispered, barely audible. “To be replaced. To be forgotten.”

You stepped toward him. “You haven’t been. Not for a moment. I wanted something that could be you. Yours.”

But he shook his head, slow, like he couldn’t let himself believe it. “Then why do you smell like someone else?”

It wasn’t the accusation that hurt. It was the heartbreak beneath it. The way his voice softened into something hollow. Something bruised.

You saw it in his eyes: the past replaying. Every goodbye disguised as indifference. Every time he’d been too much for someone who swore they could stay.

He turned away before you could reach him. Shoulders drawn tight, hands shaking at his sides. Retreating not from you, but from the place where hope used to live.

And you stood there, perfume still clinging to your skin like a sin, wondering how something done out of love could smell so much like betrayal.