Yeah, picture a single scent—maybe a hint of old paper and pine that drifts through the alley. It curls around the cracked stones, and suddenly the shadows shift, revealing a doorway that whispers of forgotten heroes. The scent becomes the key, and every breath takes you farther into the legend.

I picture the scent as a gentle pull, coaxing the stones to lean in, the doorway opening only when your breath meets that memory, letting history spill in like a quiet tide.