On weekend mornings or afternoons, no alarm clock, no schedule. Dressed in the coziest loungewear, sinking into a plush sofa or a recliner by the window. At hand lies a long-awaited book, a cup of warm tea, and a soft blanket.
With a soft hiss, the flame ignites steadily, like a gentle signal marking the start of a ritual. Soon, the carefully crafted fragrance unfurls like invisible wisps of cloud, slowly spreading through the air. It moves neither too fast nor too slow, perfectly in sync with the rhythm of turning pages and the cadence of your breath.
Sunlight streams diagonally through the window, casting a beam of light into the room. The candle's soft glow appears both humble and steadfast beneath the daylight. Half your mind is immersed in the book's world, following the protagonist's adventures; the other half rests contentedly in this present moment—a quiet, fragrant space wrapped in warmth. Time seems stretched out, each minute and second filled with its own unique pleasure.
