Cacao begins where chocolate becomes smooth.

In chocolate production, cacao beans shed their shells. Thin skins that are usually treated as by-product. Most of the time, they disappear into the background of industry: composted, burned, ignored.

We liked the quiet poetry of that. A shell with no spotlight, carrying so much of the original plant’s texture.

Those husks are recovered, dried, and milled into a fine powder, then folded back into paper pulp, replacing part of fresh tree fibre. That’s what gives the Cacao paper its warmth and its speckles. The brown and black dots are not printed on. They are cacao, held inside the sheet.

When we wrapped this paper around our drawer box, something changed in the way it behaved. Our older smooth boxes opened too easily. They felt quick, almost weightless. The cacao paper has a soft grain, and that grain adds friction. Not roughness. Just enough resistance to slow the slide, to make the opening feel deliberate.

We tested it the way you actually live with it.

Midday light on a desk.

Next to a lamp at night.

Against the suede of our pouches.

Stacked on a studio shelf.

Opened and closed until our hands stopped thinking about it.

That is the feeling we wanted: you don’t notice the engineering, you just feel cared for.

The mark on the lid stays quiet too. Pressed, not shouted. You see the form and speckles first. The branding comes later, like a detail you discover over time. Person first. Brand in the background.

We didn’t design the Cacao Edition for a single unboxing. We designed it to stay. To become the small box you reach for without thinking.

And when someone keeps the box, the story continues.

Some stories begin in a factory. This one begins in an olive grove.

Olives are harvested, then crushed into a fragrant paste. Oil is separated out. What remains is the part most people never see: peel, pulp fibres, fragments of stone. Heavy, dark, uncelebrated.

Even after the second extraction, something is still left behind: a dry fibrous residue. Spent, quiet, easily overlooked. The point where most stories would end.

Ours continues.

That material is collected, dried, milled down into powder, and blended into paper pulp. Part of the virgin tree fibre is replaced. What was almost discarded becomes a new sheet of ecological paper.

If you look closely at the Olive Edition Box, you can see it. Tiny speckles across a warm olive tone. Not decoration. Trace. The surface feels like sun and earth rather than “card.”

We designed this box with restraint, out of respect for how much has already happened before it reaches us. The form stays low and architectural. No hardware. No extra framing. Just proportion and a clean seam through the middle.

On a shelf or bedside, it reads less like packaging and more like a small, deliberate object that simply arrived with jewellery inside.

And then, the part we love most: the box doesn’t leave your life when the jewellery enters it. It stays behind, holding the pieces you reach for most often, or the quiet things you don’t want to misplace. Over time, fingerprints and tiny scuffs add a softer layer of history over the olive paper.

A grove, carried forward.

Cherry begins with a short season.

Cherries arrive, and disappear quickly. They move from orchard to kitchen, from fresh fruit to preserves and jam. And in that process, something practical is left behind in volume: pits and stalks removed so the fruit becomes smooth.

The stalks have a small afterlife of their own. The pits usually don’t.

Until they do.

The pits are recovered, dried, milled into a fine raw material, and folded back into paper making, replacing part of fresh tree fibre. A remnant given structure. A brief season given a longer life.

The Cherry paper holds a deep, quiet red. Not glossy. Not loud. A tone that feels grounded by matte grain and proportion. The kind of red that reads like lacquer in low light, and like ripe fruit when the sun touches it.

We chose cherry for the same reason we build everything else the way we do: because feeling matters.

Red is a colour people understand without explanation. It carries the idea of new chapters, reunion, a gift given with both hands. But we wanted a red that could live with you long after the moment passes. A box that doesn’t behave like a seasonal costume.

So we kept the form simple: our low drawer, a long slender MYJN wordmark stretched across the lid, no ornament, no hardware. The seam draws one clean line through the middle. On a desk, it reads like an object.

And because the surface has body, the drawer opens with controlled resistance. A slower, more satisfying slide. A small ritual you repeat without thinking, until it becomes familiar.

This is where oxytocin lives, without saying the word: in being held. In the sense that someone cared enough to slow the world down for a second.

We didn’t design the Cherry Edition Box to be “pretty packaging.” We designed it to become the place you return to, for the pieces you wear on repeat, the notes you don’t want to lose, the small things you keep close.

A square of deep cherry that makes your everyday feel slightly more intentional.