Chapter Text
A delicate scent of cleanliness and office paper lingered in the air.
Why paper exactly—Jabber himself didn’t know. Ever since childhood, when he looked at people, he sensed smells. Doctors said it was a rare form of hyperosmia—heightened sensitivity to aromas. But with Jabber, it worked differently.
When he looked at his mother’s worried face, the air filled with dampness and the cold of a basement. His father’s neutral expression smelled of cleanliness and office paper.
Jabber perceived people’s emotions as scents.
The mechanical watch on his wrist showed twenty minutes to nine. The guy was frantically packing his leather bag, throwing everything inside without really looking. First—the lab notebook: thick, worn, with bent corners and a stain of unknown origin on the cover. Without it, there was no point in showing up at all. Next—a crumpled lab coat, still smelling of detergent and something metallic. He paused for a second, wondering if it was clean… no time.
Gloves. One pair. Then another—just in case. Somewhere at the bottom of the bag, safety goggles were already rattling: scratched, with a crooked arm. He shoved in an analytical chemistry notebook with a sheet sticking out, covered in a poorly drawn solubility table. Pens—several at once, in different colors. One didn’t write, the second leaked, the third was “for emergencies.” A pencil. Definitely a pencil. Then an eraser. Antiseptic—almost empty. Band-aids, because last time, glass had won again.
His phone vibrated with a sharp, irritating notification sound. Jabber glanced at the screen.
“Did anyone bring spare gloves? I forgot mine TT”
“Is it organic or analytical today??”
“Fuck…” he muttered through clenched teeth.
He turned the phone off and shoved it into his back pocket.
He zipped the bag shut with a jerk—it looked like something might explode inside at any moment.
Pulling on a windbreaker over his T-shirt and tightening his laces, Jabber rushed out of the apartment, not forgetting to slam the door. He didn’t have time to make coffee. Back in middle school, one teacher said that anyone involved in science eventually becomes addicted either to cigarettes or to coffee. That foolish, balding middle-aged man had been right.
Jabber quit smoking in his third year—not out of concern for his health, but because tuition fees went up and he had to save money.
I need coffee, or I’ll fall asleep in the first class, flashed through his mind as the first coffee shops appeared ahead.
On the way to the university stretched an entire street of small shops and restaurants—the central park was only two hundred meters away. Without thinking, Jabber walked into the first coffee shop he saw.
The door chimed softly. A simple doormat with “Welcome” lay at the entrance; by the wall stood a coat rack, next to it—a mirror and shelves with plants. Seating lined the windows, and further in, against a white brick wall, stretched a bar counter decorated with green vines whose names Jabber, of course, didn’t know. Graffiti was visible on the wall.
The café was empty—no surprise, it wasn’t even nine yet. A young guy stood behind the register.
Same age? Jabber thought.
“Hello, I’d like a doppio, please,” Jabber said politely.
And at that very moment, he felt a sharp scent of rust.
He slightly wrinkled his nose and looked at the barista again.
“A regular doppio. Anything else?” The guy looked up. Bright blue eyes stood out sharply against a face marked by irritation.
That’s where the smell is coming from… I was polite. What’s with his mood?
The rust was fresh—not angry, just tired.
“No, that’s all.”
“That’ll be three dollars. Cash or card?”
“Card.”
“Tap here. Please wait for your order.”
While the barista was making the coffee, Jabber got a better look at him. Ash-colored dyed hair was tied into a ponytail, a branded café cap on his head. A fitted white shirt, jeans, a black apron, and a name tag that read “Zanka.”Zanka… A foreigner? Doesn’t look American. More like mixed.
A short cough interrupted his thoughts. A cup of coffee was already in front of him.
“Sorry, not fully awake yet,” Jabber smiled awkwardly, taking the drink.
“It happens. Have a good day,” Zanka smirked and turned back to the monitor.
“You too. Don’t overwork yourself.”
Jabber stepped outside.
The smell weakened toward the end. Hope I lifted his mood at least a little.
***
Classes passed at a normal pace. The coffee had long been finished, the cup thrown into the trash near the lecture hall entrance. By the end of the fourth class, the air was thick with the smell of over-roasted coffee and smoke—the room packed with exhausted students.
Jabber tugged at his lab coat sleeve and checked the time. Ten minutes to four.
I wonder when they close. I didn’t even check the schedule of that café. His coffee really was good…
He tossed his coat and cap into the bag, followed by his notes and pen. As soon as he left the lecture hall, the smell of smoke stopped assaulting his nose, replaced by a chaotic mix of others’ emotions.
I hate crowded places.
A few minutes later, Jabber passed through the university gates. The air filled with the scent of grass and office paper—the smell of calm, subtle and unobtrusive.
People walked by, leaving behind faint and sharp aromas. Warm bread. Citrus acidity.
Trust and lies. How banal and tragic.
The time read 4:14 PM. Time flew insanely fast, and at home, a chemistry paper and memorizing notes awaited him.
The same café appeared along his path again. Jabber rarely went to places like that—he had his own coffee machine at home. But now, he found himself smirking.
If I’d known the coffee was this good, I’d come here every day.
He took a photo of the schedule on the door.
From eight in the morning till ten in the evening… I could drop by in the evening for a drink or a pastry.
Looking up, he spotted Zanka behind the counter again, serving two customers. Straight posture. Precise movements.
Jabber caught himself staring again and immediately looked away when their eyes met. He turned around and hurried off.
I need to deal with my work faster.
The trip home didn’t take long. He took off his shoes and carelessly placed them on the shelf, then walked into his modest studio apartment: a combined bathroom, kitchen, and bedroom—nothing extra.
A small white rug lay in the hallway, the walls hung with framed photographs.
The room was small—about ten square meters. White walls, a single bed with a couple of posters above it, a nightstand with a photo frame, a lamp, and a small dish for jewelry. Against the opposite wall stood a wardrobe; by the window—a desk: a lamp, a cup with stationery, stacks of notebooks and textbooks, and a laptop in the center.
He dropped the bag by the desk.
Let the hellish gnawing of science begin.
Silence filled the room—thick and viscous. Jabber sat at the desk, staring at his open notes, but the lines blurred. The letters were familiar, the formulas memorized, yet his thoughts kept slipping away. The smell of paper here was different: heavy, oppressive, as if it didn’t calm him but demanded attention.
He took a sip of coffee from his mug. Bitter. Empty. Nothing like the morning.
Jabber leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. The scent of rust surfaced in his memory again—fresh, warm, non-aggressive. He tried to analyze it by his usual system, sort it into categories, but failed. That irritated him. The scent was there—the emotion wasn’t. Or maybe he just didn’t know how to name it.
His phone vibrated, but he didn’t even look at the screen. Time dragged on deliberately. At some point, Jabber realized he had been staring at one spot for ten minutes without reading a single word.
He sighed and stood up.
“The coffee’s gone,” he told himself, though he knew it wasn’t.
It was already dark outside. The city smelled of wet asphalt, cold air, and loneliness. Streetlights reflected in puddles, each step echoing softly. Jabber walked slowly, letting the scents pass by without lingering.
The café greeted him with noise and warm light. It was crowded: mixed aromas of irritation, fatigue, and fleeting joy intertwined, disorienting him. He involuntarily grimaced.
Zanka stood behind the counter.
In the evening, he looked different. His shoulders were tense, his movements precise, almost mechanical. The smell of rust hadn’t disappeared, but now something else mixed with it—dusty old books, a closed room. Suppressed emotions.
Jabber held his breath a moment longer than he should have.
The line moved slowly. When he reached the register, Zanka looked up and froze for a second, as if recognizing him.
“You again,” he said, without irritation.
“Yes,” Jabber replied shortly. “A latte, please.”
“Of course.”
And at that moment, the scent changed.
The rust weakened, giving way to something warm, barely noticeable—fresh bread and clean fabric. Jabber felt something tighten inside his chest. He lowered his gaze, pretending to look for his wallet.
“Three dollars,” Zanka said.
“Card.”
Their fingers almost touched as Jabber tapped his card. The scent flared slightly—and vanished, as if it had never existed.
“Your order will be ready in a minute,” Zanka added.
Jabber stepped aside, his heart beating unusually fast. He didn’t know how much time passed—a second or an eternity—before a cup was placed in front of him.
“Thank you.”
“Have a good evening.”
He stepped outside, and the cold air hit his face immediately. The scent of trust dissolved, leaving behind a strange emptiness.
Jabber stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and looked at the cup in his hands.
That scent wasn’t in my system, he thought.
And that frightened him more than anything.