Their first official meeting took place two days later, not in the formal conference room, but in a smaller, more intimate studio space within the observatory, a room filled with the hushed potential of creativity. It was Louis’s domain, a place where his ideas took shape, and Cheryl felt a profound sense of privilege to be invited into it. 

The walls were covered in sketches, storyboards, and cryptic notes, illuminated by the soft glow of a single projection lamp. The air smelled faintly of ozone and something metallic, like charged particles.

Louis was already there, hunched over a console, adjusting a complex array of lenses. He didn’t look up immediately, allowing Cheryl to absorb the atmosphere of his creative sanctuary. 

She felt a powerful, undeniable pull towards his genius, a magnetic force that transcended mere admiration. It was a recognition of a kindred spirit, an artist who spoke a language she instinctively understood, even if his dialect was one of light and shadow, and hers of vapor and essence.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” Cheryl said, breaking the silence gently.

Louis straightened, turning to face her. His expression was still guarded, but there was a subtle softening around his eyes, a hint of the intensity that had captivated her during his show. 

“I’ve been thinking about your ‘Nebula Bloom’ scent,” he admitted, surprising her. “The way it evolved… it had a narrative arc. That’s what interests me.”

Cheryl felt a thrill. “That’s exactly what I aim for. Each note, each accord, is a word in a story. The progression, the development, the resolution – it’s all part of the journey.”

“My projections are journeys,” Louis mused, gesturing vaguely at the blank wall that served as his canvas. “From the infinitesimal to the infinite. From chaos to order, and back again. How would you… map that with scent?”

Cheryl pulled out her notebook, filled with meticulous diagrams and scent profiles. “Let’s take the journey of a photon, for example. Born in the heart of a star, traveling through unimaginable distances, interacting with cosmic dust, finally reaching an observer’s eye. For the birth, a burst of warmth, perhaps a metallic tang of stellar nurseries. For the journey through space, a sense of vastness, coolness, a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in atmospheric pressure, perhaps a hint of ancient ice. And for the arrival, a moment of clarity, a bright, clean note that signifies perception, understanding.”

She spoke with an almost academic precision, yet her words were imbued with poetic imagery. Louis listened, his dark eyes fixed on her, absorbing every detail. 

He walked over to a large screen displaying a complex star chart, his fingers tracing constellations.

“What about the darker aspects?” he asked, his voice softer now, more contemplative. “The void. The black holes. The cosmic dust that obscures, that swallows light.”

Cheryl considered this, her brow furrowing in thought. “The void isn’t an absence of scent; it’s a different kind of presence. It could be a deep, resonant musk, something earthy and grounding, yet with an unsettling emptiness. For black holes, perhaps a scent that feels like a compression, a density, something that pulls you in, a hint of ozone and iron, almost metallic, like the crushing force of gravity. And cosmic dust… that’s beautiful. It’s the building blocks. A dry, mineralic scent, perhaps with a whisper of ancient carbon, a sense of primordial matter.”