The Eerie Demir Salon and the Vials That Went Missing

A brittle hush fills the Salon, noting the faint interruption of routine—decanted mixtures left half-blended, charcoal flecks near the hearth, and a torn filter paper curled like a discarded veil. Someone once worked here with devotion, though nothing clarifies why their steps ceased in mid-process.

Early Precision Behind the Veil

Selin Demir, born 1878 in Izmir and trained as a perfumer, left her expertise scattered through the room: brass stillheads polished to mirror sheen, Iznik ceramic bowls for macerating herbs, and orderly rows of pipettes aligned with almost scholarly intent.

Her brother, Kemal, appears only through a monogrammed handkerchief tucked beneath a cushion.

Selin’s routines shine through arrangement rather than words. The table bears concentric stains from repeated distillations, while a velvet pouch of crushed amber rests near a notebook stripped of its first pages. The Salon served as her testing chamber, a place where fragrances were layered slowly, then sealed away for potential clients in the city’s boutiques.

TURNING POINT and the Quiet Legal Threat

The TURNING POINT murmurs from a single misaligned shelf in the Salon cabinet. One vial—labeled for a proprietary attar blend—sits clouded, its contents darker than the formula scrawled on a surviving scrap. Rumors of an accusation over “recipe appropriation” were whispered among merchants. Nothing in the room confirms wrongdoing; nothing absolves it. A folded slip beneath the warming pan mentions a threatened inquiry but ends abruptly, the ink blotting toward the edge.

Kemal’s carved tobacco case lies on the table, lid dented, an object too personal to abandon lightly. Several vials are missing entirely, their indentations on the velvet lining the only trace. A faint spill of rosewater trails toward the inner doorway, stopping without explanation.

A Final, Restrained Discovery

Tucked between two cushions, a hand-cut strip of parchment carries a tentative recipe revision—three ingredients circled, one angrily crossed out. The handwriting trembles near its end, as if Selin reconsidered a decision that offered no safe path. Whether she fled impending litigation, fell ill, or simply refused to defend herself, the room yields no verdict.

The Salon keeps its muted fragrances and unanswered shifts of intention, and the house remains abandoned.