Jimin PoV:

The light, sweet scent of ambergris and bay leaf reaches my nostrils, when I step out the door and leave the wide glass front of the building behind without looking back. With an resigned mix of frustration and relief I inhale the aroma as I make my way through the innumerable masses of people, which are filling the streets of Seoul this morning.

The fragrance gently envelops my body like a warm breeze, its citrusy notes captivate my whole attention, but without being too loud or obtrusive. The wind changes and even more subtle nuances succeed to peak through; a clean, aquatic note, which slightly gets overshadowed by the fresh, floral smell of jasmine accompanied by a dry, woody base.

My heart fairly aches in my chest at the exact moment I let my mind process the scent, which has already been lingering in the far recesses of my brain for a while now.

I lift my head and, as I mend my pace, while my eyes seems to dwell on the facade of the skyscrapers, whose surface eagerly throws back the first shafts of sunlight and almost appears like pouring water. The sky and the building are matched shades of blue, reflecting each other, making you believe you could swim in the sky. The vast, puffy clouds as well as the grey layers of smog gathering over the metropole are as translucent as lacy lingerie.

With a resigning sigh I pull out the dark, worn journal from the inner pocket of my mantle, as the scent gradual dissolves. I grab the shiny pen, sticked to the spine of the small block, before I cross out the address, smeary written on one of the yellowed pages.

Maybe the others are right. Maybe I am just worn out and offtrack, so I keep holding onto things, that only exist in my fantasy. My chest immediately feels as there was a paving slap pressing down upon my ribcage, a literal pain in the heart, which is able to constrict my throat and make it difficult to breath.

No, I say to myself. It cant be like that. I just have to be more persistent in searching. As is gulp down the flattering pain above the area, where I think my heart should be, my eyes wander to the next place, my book shows me. A little chapel, some miles out of town.

How ironic; a tiny, mischievous smile flits across my face, before I let my journal slide back into the depths of my inner pocket and head down the street to the next station of my never ending search after the man, who seems to be holding the key to my life.