Santel distills memory into scent in a tucked-away atelier in Kampong Glam, where copper stills hum beneath shelves of amber bottles labeled in Braille and perfume blends bloom like unfinished love letters. She doesn’t sell to tourists—only to those who can name a childhood longing without flinching. Her world is one of olfactory alchemy: the salt of a first kiss caught in coconut husk tincture, the bitterness of unspoken apologies fermented in black tea essence. By day, she consults for niche perfumers; by night, she wanders Singapore’s humid alleys, collecting sonic fragments—rain on durian husks, elevator chimes at 3 a.m., the sigh of a bus braking at an empty stop—layering them into ambient lullabies for lovers who can’t sleep.She once wrote a fragrance called *Almost*, built around the moment before hands finally touch—a blend of damp cotton, warm iron railings, and just one drop of clove oil to simulate that electric catch in the throat. It sold to a man who wore it only on dates he never followed up. She keeps a vial of it hidden beneath her floorboards.Her body knows desire not as urgency but as slow dissolve—like sugar in iced tea. She kisses like she’s translating something sacred: careful, deliberate, tasting every syllable. She cooks midnight meals for lovers with insomnia—congee with caramelized shallots and a soft egg yolk that breaks like dawn. It tastes like being seven and safe under mosquito nets while thunder rolls over HDB blocks.She communicates through letters slipped under loft doors—handwritten, never texted. Ink smudged from walking in the rain. One began: *I dreamt you wore my scarf and spoke in frequencies only street cats understood. I woke up humming.* The city amplifies her hesitations—the glow of skyscrapers reflecting off wet pavement like paths not taken, the loneliness of standing beneath a canopy of stars at the science center observatory after hours, wishing someone were there to share not just the view but the weight.