A wine made for the gloaming, when the candles catch, the room hushes, and everything good begins. It starts dark, rich, and velvet-thick. You sit back in your chair and the world softens. There’s warmth, like blackberry pie cooling on a windowsill, like someone cooking pork over mesquite and telling stories that get better with every retelling. You catch the scent of redwood forest, deep, wet earth, old trees breathing. Someone nearby is grinding Ethiopian coffee, laughing. There’s a hint of white pepper in the air. Perhaps cloves. Perhaps memory. A briny brightness appears like sea air caught in joyful laughter on a warm afternoon with Castelvetrano olives eaten from your fingers on a sunlit rock by the sea. Then, it deepens, like dusk settling around a fire. Mint and basil, cool and clear. A hint of truffle, earthy and mischievous. Smoke, soft and shadowed like a secret flame just out of sight, like the faint curl of campfire wisps drifting through evening air, more suggestion rather than scent. And something warm and toasty, like sunflower seeds in a paper cone from a crowded market square. This libation settles softly, like a quiet moment shared. It’s a journey through a day you haven’t yet lived, but somehow remember. You look around the table. The fire’s crackling. Your friends are flushed and smiling. And you know, in that golden, flickering moment, you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.