This book is the single source of truth for Meadow. It is a living document, not a PDF: it is versioned, and the version you are reading is stated on the cover. Read the strategy before the visual rules — almost every rule here follows from something decided in it. Anything not covered: ask before inventing. A gap is a question, never a licence.

2026 — four products, refills in paper, the first twenty stores. 2028 — refill stations in travertine and oak, and a scent for each month of summer. 2033 — a returnable glass system, so the bottle outlives the brand's first decade.

Every product is described in the same order: what it cleans · what it is made of, named in full · how it smells and why · how the refill works · what it costs. Never say eco, green or natural.

Products are named for the job, in lower case: hand wash, dish, laundry, surface. Scents are named for the month they were picked.

The considered home — lead with the scent and the object on the counter. The sceptic — lead with the ingredient list and the refill maths. Hotel or restaurant — lead with what the guest sees at the sink and the refill logistics.

Name every ingredient. Keep the bottle. Do the chore slowly.

Refill stations in travertine and oak, a label long enough to read while you wait, and a subscription that sends paper, not plastic.

Eco cleaning looks like a health warning and luxury soap stops at the bathroom sink. Meanwhile the kitchen and the laundry — the rooms where most of the day actually happens — are full of bright plastic nobody wants to look at. Meadow is named after the unmown field behind the founder's summer house; the smell of it after rain is the brief for every scent, and the label tells you exactly what is in the bottle.

Do write full sentences on the label. Do name every ingredient. Don't say eco, green or natural.

None. The brand uses words where others use icons.

Amber glass, uncoated parchment labels, travertine, oak, linen.

A calm 12-column grid, label-like: small type in columns, large images alone.

Slow dissolves, long holds, no movement you notice.

Long scroll on stone backgrounds, one bottle per screen, the ingredients as the copy. Refills are the first thing you can buy.

The "m." only — woven as a small label, pressed into soap, burnt into oak. The full wordmark stays on the bottle. Never on clothing.

Lime plaster and travertine. The wordmark hand-painted in soil brown above the window, the "m." on the door glass. Refill stations in oak with amber glass taps.