About

The hours we hold close are the ones that shape us

Behind Dear Hours

Since childhood, I’ve been captivated by the worlds that paper holds.

At seven, my small fingers rifled through colourful notebooks and pens at the market while my grandmother shopped for groceries. At twelve, tucked away in the library, losing myself in worlds spun by writers from near and far.  Later, I exchanged letters with my grandmother across continents, her stories became the ones I held closest.

There was always something magical in it all; the faint scent of books, paper and ink bound together, preserving stories. Those moments lit sparks of imagination, inspiring my own little worlds.

Every story begins with a blank page.

A new notebook, the scratch of a pen, the quiet thrill of creating something from nothing. These weren’t just hobbies; they became rituals—anchors in a fast-moving world.

Dear Hours was shaped by the same sense of wonder: a little world that invites introspection, a gentle reminder that our hours are not to be rushed, but savoured.

What you will find here

Curated collections of stationery and analog companions that feel as good as they look; pieces that carry artistry, function, and a sense of pause. 

Every detail matters: from the type of binding, to the weight of the paper, to the story of its maker. What began as a personal obsession with finding just-right items is now shared with you.

I believe that the objects we use daily should not only serve us, but encourage reflection—turning ordinary hours into dear ones.

Together with artists and makers

Every Dear Hours piece begins with an artist or designer whose craft we admire, bringing our shared love of paper, art, and intention to life.

We are more than stationery

Dear Hours is a community for the ones who return to paper when the world feels too loud—built around journaling as an anchor. For those who appreciate quality and crave the tactile. Here, the analog and digital don’t compete; they flow side by side.

We offer more than paper.
We offer a way of holding space, pausing long enough to notice what matters.