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Elias leaned forward, the clear tubing of his cannula tugging gently behind his ears. He pinched a leaf, releasing that sharp, cool scent. For a moment, the mechanical hum faded. The oxygen flowing through the plastic tubes didn't just feel like "air" anymore—it felt like the wind crossing the hills of his youth, carrying the scent of every flower he’d ever planted. "It smells like home," he whispered.

Mia smiled, adjusting the bolo slide on his tubing to make sure it was snug. "That's the point, Grandpa. Now you can take the garden with you, even when you're just sitting here."

He adjusted the soft plastic prongs of his new nasal cannula, a fresh one he'd just unwrapped. It smelled faintly of nothing—clean and clinical—unlike the damp moss and blooming jasmine he remembered so clearly. He missed the way the air felt when it wasn't filtered through a machine, but he didn't miss the gasping.