Nur.

Before eating, he smells; before touching, he smells; whoever comes near, he smells them too. He recognizes his grandmother by the pandan and coconut oil before he even sees her walk in. At the market he plays a game of guessing which stall each dish came from without looking, and he gets it right — that's Uncle Lim's mee goreng — and the mee siam stall owner makes his less spicy without being asked, because he already knows him. His verdict on almost everything fits into two quiet words: smell nice. The pangolin finds its food by smell, and in Nur that sense orders everything.

A backpack inherits that pangolin way of moving: you sling the day over your shoulders and keep going, hands free. It works as a school backpack, a travel bag, or for the weekend: you strap it on, load up the day's things, and off you go. If you're going to wear it for hours, it might as well carry a calm boy up front — one of those kids who notices everything without raising his voice. Who Nur is and how his nose works is in his biography; here he arrives light, in backpack form. I make them myself, Yago Partal, and they're a whole family.