Home was an open-plan loft designed around a single kitchen-living space. The original steel staircase led to the mezzanine floor where I slept; a small second bedroom and bathroom were tucked off the entrance. Before the developers took over, the building was derelict. Graffiti and tagging disfigured the brickwork, the steel-framed windows were broken and the wide floorboards were damaged and encrusted with pigeon shit. My apartment was little more than disused roof space, the topmost corner of the former city wool store.

I took another deep breath. The air had substance, a pulse. It was rich and deep and made up of many notes beside the wool and lanolin. There were hints of fresh green grass, sun-bleached paddocks, the sweet coumarin warmth of hay, dust and shit … even human sweat, tobacco and tar. My home was a repository of past weather, seasons and years.

I walked towards the long table in the centre of the room and placed my bag gently beside an open notebook. A shaft of light filtered through the window, creating a broad track across neat rows of carefully labelled amber bottles. From my bag I took out my latest purchases and placed them in the gaps, speaking their names as I arranged them: clary sage, myrrh, birch tar, geranium, nutmeg, labdanum, vanilla and ambrette.

It was quiet in the loft. The last of the afternoon sun had slipped below the partially closed blind and the room was bathed in golden tones. The ceiling fan traced a slow circle overhead and every now and then a sound like a gentle whop, whop, whop lapped the air.

Kate Chopin’s The Awakening lay open next to my notebook. It was one of the department’s standard texts, on the first-year reading list for as long as I could remember. For a time, it was the only novel by a woman that was required reading. When I lost my job I brought my books home. I stacked my poetry collection and novels in neat piles against the walls and placed the academic texts in numbered boxes in the spare room. I should probably have tried to sell the textbooks but I thought they might be out of date and worthless.

It had been a long time since I’d read for pleasure. At first I wasn’t sure if I’d remember how to read without a specific purpose in mind. I guess old habits take a while to die because as I reread the story of Edna Pontellier, I copied passages and attached sticky notes whenever I came across a reference to scent. By the time I was halfway through there were fifteen blue tabs poking out from the pages.