About
Hei.
You've arrived where arctic forests remember, and satellites listen.
We bottle the distance between a pine needle and the rings of Saturn,
then pour it back into your hands as perfume.
Our Origin Myth
A woolly monster drifts through clover fields, slow as a glacier losing patience. In its wool are shards of the Pleistocene — frozen spores, dust from mammoth bones, the smell of pine buried for ten thousand years. Each step exhales statistics disguised as scents: the honeyed clover of monoculture collapse, the tannin steam of 2.3 billion cups of tea consumed daily, the melting chocolate of exhausted markets, the bright wedge of an orange from the last surviving grove in the Mediterranean. Above, a bergamot sun peels itself into luminous segments that drift outward like IPO filings, citrus as the original architecture of the cosmos.
Our Philosophy of Scent
A fragrance should not only smell; it should remember.
We craft scents that live between realities —
the warmth of black tea in a pine forest,
the metallic hum of a satellite brushing through the ionosphere,
the sweetness of honeyed white clover under a glacier's shadow.
We are absurd because nature is absurd:
snow falls into the sea;
flowers bloom in the dark;
and sometimes, milk drips from Saturn.
The Craft
Each bottle is distilled like a secret:
- Arctic flowers gathered at the precise moment before bloom.
- Oils extracted under low light, to keep their memory intact.
- Compositions layered until they hum with both earth and orbit.
We make small batches,
because Saturn spins slowly,
and we will not rush it.