Sunlight slips through broken rafters, catching on puddles of old spirit and salt, warm with the scent of ripe peach crushed beneath the summer heat.
On the coast of the Mediterranean, the abandoned distillery breathes in silence, vines twisting like forgotten handwriting across rusted copper stills and stone floors sticky with the memory of sweetness. The wind carries ocean spray through the broken shutters, mingling with the ghosts of grape skins and vine leaves, sun-dried and brittle.
The memory of cognac still perfumes the air, thick with citrus zest and sunburnt oak. Jasmine once hung here to dry, now grows wild through cracked stone.
It is said this place was once sacred. Not marked by names or maps. Only the scent remains, Cognac Paradis.
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