On a pleasant autumn evening, in the golden light, the cold suddenly swept over me. Winter would be upon us at dawn. Opening the front door, I turned to look one last time at the last stem of the tuberose flowers, a gift from a summer that had survived, thinking that in the morning I would go and pick it up to get drunk for a few days more on its smell. Since then, at a time when artificial lights respond to the night, the tuberose spreads with its soft voice a scent of jasmine, plum and spices. It is a whisper, like a breeze, that will not tire. And every night, around midnight, its voice goes out, so we can wait for the same moment the next day. Its smell is like his life, programmed. There is something in this flower of the figure of Shéhérazade that every night tells a story of escaping death. She did it so well that her story, still alive, has become a perfume.