3 October, Distillery Camp
Distillation day. The stills glow like temple bells in the dawn. We fed the fire for hours, watching smoke curl into the bamboo pipes. When the first drop fell—thick, golden, smelling of old forests and older secrets—the men went quiet. Oud is the tree’s final breath, and we are its midwives. I saved a vial of this batch. Not to sell. To remember.
- Maly
