Each letter takes the better part of a day. Not because the writing is long, but because it is deliberate. There is no backspace. Each sentence is committed to before it is begun. The paper does not forgive haste.

The act of writing by hand changes what is written. The pace of the hand is the pace of thought. It slows both. What remains on the page is not a first draft but a final one — marked by the particular quality of attention that only physical inscription demands.

The paper is 120gsm laid cotton, cream-white, with a medium tooth. It is the kind of paper that does not age well under harsh light but lasts centuries in the dark. It takes ink without bleeding. It holds the impression of the nib.

The ink is iron gall, mixed in small batches. It reads black when first applied and browns over decades. What is written now will look different in thirty years. This is intentional. A letter is not fixed. It is a record that continues to change.

The wax seal is the closure. It is poured hot and impressed before it sets. The stamp is a private mark — not monogrammed, not heraldic. It changes motif each year though the impression remains consistent in quality.

The colour of the wax is chosen at the time of writing, from a small collection of sticks kept for this purpose. It is not chosen in advance. It is chosen when the letter is finished, as a final decision about what that year's dispatch required.