GREETING CARDS, POSTCARDS AND GIFT TAGS
PAY WITH TWINT
When we started looking for a way into this card, we kept coming back to the word hello. It is younger than you might expect. Only about 150 years old, invented for the telephone, a practical solution for a new and awkward device. Nobody knew what to say, so someone decided. Hello.
What interests us is how much it can carry. The hello shouted across a car park. The one that arrives after years of silence. The one said quietly to a new colleague on their first morning, before anything between you exists yet. One word, doing completely different work each time.
A hello doesn't need to be glamorous. Cleopatra ate pickled cucumbers daily, convinced they were the source of her beauty and her strength. Not roses, not gold, not anything particularly glamorous. A cucumber. It is simply the most unlikely thing to put on a greeting card. Nobody chose it for beauty or symbolism. It is just ... there. A bit awkward. A bit odd. Completely unbothered about being on a greeting card.
Not only did she love pickled cucumbers, we like to think she had dogs too.
There is an old belief that the souls closest to us find each other again. Not always as humans. Sometimes as something else entirely. These two knew each other once, in another life, as something other than a spaniel and a hound. And that one ordinary day, on an ordinary walk, they turned a corner and there the other one was.
Just: hello.
FEATURED PRODUCTS
PAY WITH TWINT
Come, traveller. They say Aphrodite passed through here once, on her way up from the sea. That where her feet touched the ground, things grew. Citrus first, because she liked the smell of the rind on her fingers, and then the lilies, blazing up through the cobblestones as if the stone itself could not contain them.
You can still feel it, on a warm summer morning, when the market in Corfu is opening and the air is thick with the smell of fresh fruit. Somewhere between the stalls, an orange rolls free and no one stops it.
Follow it.
Past lemons piled in nets, still cool from the night. Past a window thrown open in an old building. The street narrows here, the stone worn smooth by years of the same footsteps, pilgrims, merchants, lovers, all of them following the same unhurried path.
Then the lilies. Tiger lilies, pushing up through a crack in the wall, orange against orange. Aphrodite's own flower, the Greeks said. The one that blooms where love has been.
You stop. Above you, the sky has filled with fruit, oranges loose in the clouds, a lemon catching the light, the whole morning arranging itself into something you wish someone else could see. At the stall beside you, you find a card, the fruits, the lilies, that warmth, all of it gathered into one image, and across it a single word, wide and warm as the morning itself.
The card has already written itself. You just need to sign it.
These cards exist because writing to someone by hand is one of the most beautiful thing you can do. And it deserves something matching.
FSC certified paper, printed in the United Kingdom, designed in Zurich. Because the art of writing should never die.
