The Scent of the Night-Blooming Jasmine

In the quiet town of San Vicente, nestled between the sea and the mountains, our family home stood old and sturdy, its walls humming with decades of memories. I am Liam, and this story begins with the death of my grandfather, Donato, on the 12th of October, 2008. He was my mother’s father, a man whose gentle hands had built the very chairs we sat on, and whose heart was the warmest beacon in our lives.

When Lolo Donato passed, it was sudden—a burst in his head that no one could have prevented. He died at ten in the evening, just as the old grandfather clock in the hallway chimed the hour. My mother, Elena, had been by his side, her tears falling on his still face. We were all in shock, but the strangeness began almost immediately.

The first oddity was the rocking chair in the corner of his room. It was Lolo’s favorite, where he would sit every evening, humming a tune only he knew. That night, after they took his body away, the chair began to rock on its own. Not violently, but gently, as if a ghostly hand gave it a nudge. We all saw it—my father, his brother, even the priest who came to pray. They said it was the wind, but there was no wind that night.

Then, the scent came. It was the sweet fragrance of dama de noche, the night-blooming jasmine that grew along the garden wall. It was overwhelming, filling the house, but the flowers were not in bloom. It was October, and they had withered months ago. The smell clung to everything, and it was the same scent that would later fill the funeral chapel.

The chapel was an old converted mansion on the edge of town, with grand staircases and many rooms. It even had free Wi-Fi, which seemed an oddity in such a place. When we brought Lolo there for the wake, the air was thick with dama de noche and other floral perfumes, though no flowers were anywhere near. The mourners whispered about it, some said it was a sign from the afterlife, others just crossed themselves and stayed quiet.

My youngest brother, Nico, was only a year old then. Lolo had doted on him, carrying him everywhere, singing to him, adoring him. The day after Lolo died, Nico did not sleep. He was wide awake, his eyes darting around the room as if watching unseen figures. My mother was exhausted, trying to comfort him, but he refused to close his eyes until nine in the evening. Then, he fell asleep in my mother’s arms, exactly at ten o’clock—the same time Lolo had died. It was as if he was waiting for that moment, and then he surrendered to a deep slumber.

From that night on, Nico’s behavior changed. He would sometimes stare at the rocking chair, and it would rock when he was near. At the funeral, which was on October 18, he giggled at something invisible, and the temperature dropped sharply. My mother was terrified, but the priest said it might be Lolo’s spirit comforting the child.

After the burial, the strange occurrences did not cease. The rocking chair continued to move on its own, and the scent of dama de noche would come and go, sometimes waking us in the middle of the night. We tried to move the chair, but it felt heavy, as if rooted to the spot. We even threw away the flowers, but the smell persisted.

One evening, about a week after the funeral, I was alone in the living room. I heard a soft creaking from Lolo’s room. I walked in, and there, in the dim light, I saw the silhouette of an old man sitting in the rocking chair, gently swaying. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew it was Lolo. He seemed to be looking at Nico’s crib, which was in the corner of the room. Then, he vanished, and the scent of dama de noche grew so strong I choked.

I rushed to my parents, but they thought I was dreaming. But my mother noticed something: Nico was smiling in his sleep, and there was a faint mark on his hand, like a small bruise, shaped oddly like a thumbprint. She said it was nothing, but I saw her trace it with her finger, and her face turned pale.

That was years ago. Nico is now a teenager, and he has no memory of those events. But on every October 12th, the rocking chair in his room rocks by itself, and the smell of dama de noche fills the air, just for one night. And I swear, sometimes, I hear Lolo’s soft humming, as if he’s still watching over us, especially over Nico, the child he loved most.

I don’t know if it’s a haunting or a blessing. All I know is that the scent of that flower, once sweet, now reminds me of death, and of a love that transcends it. And every year, on that night, I find myself listening for the creak of the rocking chair, and the whisper of a lullaby that never ends.