Sachet unfurls like a silken scroll of fragrance across the imagination, its very syllables drawn from the soft sigh of Old French, where “sachet” once meant a small bag brimming with dried petals or precious spices. In its diminutive form lies a world of subtlety and secret delight—an echo of perfumed pouches tucked amid kimono folds, reminiscent of Heian-era incense sachets drifting through moonlit pavilions. Though it has glimmered sparingly in American records—hovering around the eight-hundred mark in the early 1990s—its rarity only deepens the sense of hushed reverence it carries. As a name, Sachet conjures the art of kŏdō, the Japanese “way of fragrance,” where a single whiff can transport the spirit to mist-clad gardens, mossy pathways, and the delicate bloom of tsubaki at dawn. Cool and composed, yet endlessly evocative, Sachet whispers of hidden treasures and the gentle power of memory wrapped in petals and time.