The smell of her leather armchair could be caught from the doorway. A distinct perfume that had long ago woven into the timber walls. You could always find her there crowded by books that she drank by the chapter, slowly submerging herself in new worlds and curiosities. When she surfaced between sun and cobblestone the faint draught of leather would trail her like a string that held their existence together.

I ran out of time, but want to extend the paragraph by saying that string/scent would wane and as it slowly diminished she would be pulled back to the armchair to dissolve into her stories until she was thickly coated in a protective layer of comfort and leather.