Green

Dust is deceptively subtle—imagine walking into an old library where sunlight streams through tall windows, catching particles in the air. It smells like the mineral earthiness of concrete after a dry spell, mixed with the faint staleness of undisturbed corners and aged paper. There's a green, slightly metallic quality, reminiscent of disturbed soil or the smell of stone when you brush your hand across it. It's not unpleasant; rather, it carries a dry, almost papery crispness with whispers of geranium leaf and dry hay—nostalgic, quiet, and unexpectedly grounding.

Woody

Musk is the scent of warmth itself—imagine the gentle heat radiating from skin after exercise, mingled with soft suede and a whisper of vanilla. It's deeply intimate rather than floral or sharp; think of wrapping yourself in a cashmere blanket warmed by the sun, with a faint animalic undertone that's almost imperceptible. Pure musk has a powdery, almost imperceptible sweetness, like the inside of a lover's wrist or the comfort of well-loved fabric. It doesn't announce itself boldly; instead, it envelops and lingers on your skin like a second layer.