He Wore Fig in Autumn EDP

In the year the leaves turned late, she met him at a bookstall tucked beneath a copper canopy of trees. He wore a threadbare coat, carried a notebook without lines, and spoke with pauses that made her listen more closely.

She would remember him not for what he said, but for the way the air seemed to shift whenever he was near.

There was something earthy, tender, and green about him. It reminded her of the fig trees from her childhood, still warm from the sun. Beneath that, she sensed a deeper warmth: plum-rich, touched with cinnamon, and layered with something she couldn’t quite define. It was a blend of resin, vanilla, and smoke, the kind that lingers quietly in the folds of time.

They wandered through parks brushed in gold, drank tea that steamed against the cold, and parted without making promises. He left without a word, slipping away with the quiet certainty of autumn, gentle and unexplained.

Years later, when that familiar scent drifted past her again, she found the courage to whisper, “Do you remember me? My name is Francesca.”