That morning, the old man got up and made the usual breakfast: coffee, toast and some fruit. He set the table with a threaded tablecloth and laid the plates, napkins, and cutlery. There he sat alone and ate slowly. He also fed his dogs and cats that prowled around the house. That morning he woke up with the idea that it would be his last morning, so even though he had put it off for a long time, he would write the letter that day.

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After watering the plants, the old man went to the kitchen to put on the water for the chamomile, ginger, and honey tea he was drinking in the middle of the morning. After waiting for the water to boil, he poured the tea into a huge cup. With the cup in one hand, he went to the library and sat at his old, ramshackle desk. He took out white paper and put on his glasses. He sighed because in spite of his age he felt that this was going to be one of the hardest things he had ever done. But he couldn't put off that moment any longer, so he put the first sentence on the white paper: My dearest love, I have always loved you...

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As he wrote, the old man remembered the day he met Anna. They were at the university, very young and both were studying medicine. When he saw her for the first time, his heart stopped for a moment and all the blood in his body stopped. When he reacted again, he felt the blood rushing frantically through his veins and that his heart was beating so hard that he could not hear his voice. The creature that had arrived, beyond its wild beauty, gave off a sweet, bright smell. He thought at that moment that this was what paradise must smell like, The Hanging Gardens of Babylon. To his mind came the review he read in a tourist magazine where he said that some areas of the world had their own particular smells: Madagascar smells of vanilla, Istanbul of spices, Paris of croissants. Anna smelled of heaven.

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She was always a very shy person so it was impossible for her to be near that girl and not stutter or have her hands sweat. Anna sensed the feelings he had towards her, and instead of moving away, she sought to share more time with him. But neither of them told that Antonio, a friend of both of them, proposed to Anna first. Anna was at first reluctant to accept Antonio's amorous approaches, but then she accepted them. So Antonio and Anna married, had children and then went to France where they bought a house in Provence. The old man once read that in La Provence there is always the smell of thyme, oregano, laurel, marjoram, but that in July it smells of lavender. The old man then got into the habit of taking any product that smelled of lavender to his nose and thought that's how Anna should smell in July.

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As he wrote slowly the old man felt sorry for his lack of impetus, his lack of initiative, his ill-healed shame. While he managed to achieve academic and professional success, he failed miserably in the field of love. He married a woman who always thought he was very cold and indifferent, and with whom he had children who never loved him and who were rather terrified of him. His shyness had turned him into an isolated, silent being with few friends. This defect had confined him to live alone after the premature death of his wife, since the children, little by little, were leaving the house and then the country, as if fleeing from that withdrawn, pusillanimous father who did not know how to show love.

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When he finished that letter, he folded it and put it in his shirt pocket. He stood up with a superhuman effort and sighed. Every day it was more difficult to get up, to continue. It was 2 o'clock in the afternoon, so he took an empty bottle and went to the beach. There, she looked at the horizon and breathed in the blue smell of the sea. He thought that if his life had to have a smell, it would be that one. The breeze at that hour was strong, so he regretted not wearing a coat. He sighed, feeling more tired. Slowly he reached into his pocket and pulled out the folded letter. He read it again, then put it in the empty bottle and threw it into the sea. He felt that a weight was being lifted from his shoulders, and that for the first time, although it was already late, he had been able to confess his feelings. At that moment, closing his eyes and inhaling the sea breeze, he remembered the last line of the letter:

_Anna, you're an ocean away, but close to my heart.

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