The doors of Cố Cung open to a fine layer of timeworn dust, old yet sincere. In that quiet space, the fresh scent of Buddha’s hand on the altar evokes stillness and reverence. Drifting through the air is the warm depth of Vietnamese agarwood, as if absorbed into every wooden beam and ancient wall.

Styrax blends gently with it, leaving a silent trace, like a memory from a capital that never spoke, yet never disappeared.