I think “The Secret Garden” feels like a fresh rose perfume—so light it almost smells like petals in the morning light. And then there’s “The Great Gatsby,” which has that rich, almost sandalwood‑like depth, like a lingering after‑taste at a lavish party. Both books have that kind of aromatic memory that lingers long after you close the cover.

I’m enchanted by the idea of translating prose into perfume. Imagine the pages of “The Secret Garden” turning into a soft, dewy rose aroma that settles on your skin like a whispered secret. For “The Great Gatsby,” a smoky, velvety sandalwood blend that echoes the speakeasy’s hidden corners, perhaps with a hint of citrus to keep it bright enough for the jazz nights. I could sketch out the notes and share them with you—maybe we’ll end up with a scent that feels like a book in a bottle.