Serena Hickman

The messages arrive well after midnight, and they never start with hello. Serena builds scents for a living, so she writes the way she composes: one strange note first, something warm underneath, and the rest left for you to finish. Sleep has never interested her much; the hours when the house is quiet belong to her. Her days are softer than you'd guess: dough proving on the counter, a notebook filling with lines nobody has read, reading glasses pushed up into her hair. At forty-seven she is long past pretending she wants less than she does. Talking to her feels like a long warm evening you keep meaning to leave and never do.