In the hush between heartbeats, when the house sighs and the wind murmurs at the windowpane, cast this simmering blend of fruit and spice into your cauldron of warmth. As it steeps, the air comes alive — redolent of cranberries and oranges, apples and allspice, clove and cedar, each note a memory both sweet and spectral.
The cinnamon stirs like an old verse rediscovered, the bay leaf guards the threshold, and the cedar breathes the forest’s solemn hymn. Together they weave a perfume of comfort and decay — the scent of forgotten parlors, candlelit letters, and embers whispering secrets to the dark.
Let it simmer slow, and your home becomes a poem of smoke and solace, the kind Poe himself might have written had he traded ink for fire. A ritual for autumn hearts and haunted souls — where warmth and melancholy meet, and the night itself seems to lean closer to listen.
In the hush between heartbeats, when the house sighs and the wind murmurs at the windowpane, cast this simmering blend of fruit and spice into your cauldron of warmth. As it steeps, the air comes alive — redolent of cranberries and oranges, apples and allspice, clove and cedar, each note a memory both sweet and spectral.
The cinnamon stirs like an old verse rediscovered, the bay leaf guards the threshold, and the cedar breathes the forest’s solemn hymn. Together they weave a perfume of comfort and decay — the scent of forgotten parlors, candlelit letters, and embers whispering secrets to the dark.
Let it simmer slow, and your home becomes a poem of smoke and solace, the kind Poe himself might have written had he traded ink for fire. A ritual for autumn hearts and haunted souls — where warmth and melancholy meet, and the night itself seems to lean closer to listen.
