Old paper has a weather system. Dust, glue, a little dampness, the soft trace of somebody’s hands. It is not one smell but a roomful of them arriving at once.

A perfume can do something similar. It gives the body a small archive. A note appears and suddenly the hallway is back, the lamp is on, and somebody is laughing in the kitchen.

Memory is often less like a photograph than a door opening in another room.
              .-.
             /   \
            |  *  |
             \   /
           ___|_|___
             \ | /
              \|/
               |
              / \
A small illustrated mouse standing beneath leaves beside a strawberry

The best objects do not tell you what to remember. They make a little space for the memory to choose itself.