The scent of fear (Marcella Boccia)
It does not smell of fire,nor of gunpowder curling in the air.It is not the acrid breath of burning homes,nor the sharp sting of metal and blood.No—fear smells of something softer,something slower,like damp earth before a storm,like the last trace of perfume on a vanished wrist,like the skin of a child pressed against silence.It clings to the folds of the wind,woven into the fabric of waiting,into the space where footsteps hesitate,where doors close before duskand voices are swallowed whole.It seeps into the bones,turns marrow to shadow,makes hands tremble before they touch,before they write,before they reach for somethingthat may not be there tomorrow.And even when the streets are empty,even when the guns fall quiet,even when the world pretends to forget—fear lingers,invisible as breath on cold glass,a scent that never truly fades.
