His left nostril flared open like a tiny umbrella. He could suddenly smell his own pillowcase, the faint lavender of his laundry detergent, even the dust in the corner of the room. He nearly wept with joy.
Then Leo had a ridiculous idea.
He wasn’t a wizard. He just learned that sometimes, unblocking your nose isn’t about chemistry—it’s about geometry, gravity, and a little bit of delightful self-deception.
From that day on, Leo became insufferable at parties. Someone would sniffle, and he’d say, “Have you tried lying to your brain about which way is down?” They’d stare. He’d demonstrate. And every so often, someone’s nose would miraculously open, and they’d look at him like he was a wizard.