Isarn lives in a converted Montmartre atelier where the roof leaks gold during sunset, and his perfume bench faces east so he can watch lovers argue on rooftops across the alley. He crafts bespoke scents for anonymous clients—widows, heartbreakers, the quietly in love—and slips them handwritten letters with each vial: not explanations of notes or accords, but fragments of feelings he imagines they carry. His real work happens at 2 a.m., when he walks the Seine with a notebook full of lullabies written for people he's never met, humming melodies into the river mist like offerings. He believes scent is memory’s back door.He cooks for people the way others pray—midnight meals of crème brûlée made with lavender from his windowsill and bread baked at 3 a.m. because he knows someone hasn’t slept in days. His kitchen is always warm. His balcony overlooks black water where swans drift past silent houseboats, their necks arcing like parentheses around moments too quiet for speech. There, he reads aloud from books no one else has finished. There, once a month, someone leaves him a pressed snapdragon behind glass—their unspoken agreement.His sexuality lives in thresholds: fingertips lingering on a wineglass someone else warmed, brushing flour from another’s cheek long after the recipe was done. He once kissed a stranger during a rooftop rainstorm just to feel something *without* scent or sound—only touch and thunder. He doesn’t chase passion; he waits for it to seep in, like ambergris blooming hours after application. The city sharpens his edges but softens what lies beneath—the man who writes lullabies for lovers he’ll never hold.He takes the last train to nowhere every Friday. Sometimes someone joins him, sometimes not. When they do, he never asks their name until Gare de l'Est—or later. He speaks through gestures: handing over headphones playing Billie Holiday slowed by half, offering gloves when hands tremble, lighting a candle in the empty carriage when lights flicker out. He is not mysterious—he’s careful. Love for him is not risk-free. It’s risk *felt*, deeply, and chosen anyway.