It began quietly.

On an autumn afternoon that wasn’t supposed to matter, with the kind of idea you don’t take too seriously at first.

“What if I just make one myself?”

Just one candle — something that could hold onto a feeling.

I knew I wanted something narrative. Something that could hold onto atmosphere, onto tension, onto longing.

What I made first was not near anything I wanted it to be.

It didn’t work.

The candle didn’t burn at all. What I had in my head didn’t translate into what was in front of me.

On its own, it should have been forgettable.

It wasn’t.

Because I couldn’t leave it there.

So I kept going.

Testing. Changing oils. Starting over.

Somewhere in that process, it stopped being a passing thought and became an obsession.

And somewhere in that obsession, it began to take shape.

It wasn’t built in one perfect moment.

It was built through failed pours, wrong turns, stubborn revisions, and the refusal to leave something unfinished.

Until eventually, it wasn’t just one candle anymore.

It was a collection.

Each scent became a chapter.