Midnight Mass

Midnight Mass is the moment the world goes quiet and the old stone cathedral finally exhales.

The hour is late, the nave empty, the air still warm from votive candles and whispered prayers. Frankincense rises first, golden and sacred, followed by myrrh’s dark resinous depth, as if the altar itself has been anointed in smoke. Incense coils through the shadows in slow ribbons, wrapping around stained glass and cold pillars, catching on velvet curtains and the hem of a black coat.

As the scent deepens, patchouli unfurls like a solemn procession, earthy and magnetic, and oudh arrives like a final vow: ancient, smoke-dark, and undeniably devotional.

This is not a sweet incense. This is reverence. Ritual. The lingering presence of something holy and haunted, long after the last hymn has faded.

Midnight Mass is what remains when the candles are snuffed, and the prayers have already been answered.