For me, the scent of linden is not just a scent. It's an address.

A street in the village where my aunt lives. Almost the center of it, a school nearby, and in the schoolyard — a few old, towering lindens. When they bloom, all day long that incredible aroma hangs over everything, thick and warm, like honey.

Most of all, I remember it at night. Summer nights out — that carefree time, a whole separate chapter of life, when you need nothing but the night itself. Stars overhead; the aroma that grows even more aching in the dark and drifts far, far away; frogs croaking down at the pond.

That feeling still enchants me: you are small, and all around you — nature in its grandeur. You can see far, far into the distance, all the way to the horizon, and above you stretches the boundless starry cosmos. In the city, wherever you look — buildings.

But the linden finds me even here. There's a park near home; I walk among the trees with my children — and suddenly there she is, the very same one. One breath — and I'm back there again: the village, the night, the stars, the frogs, infinity.