On the Six Seconds.

Count it, sometime. From when the tap turns off, to when the towel is put back, to the soft click of the door behind you — maybe six seconds. That is the whole length of a bathroom exit, measured honestly. Not ten. Not thirty. Six.

Almost every product that tries to help you here assumes the opposite. An aerosol asks for two long presses and a long wait. A candle asks to be lit and blown out. A stick of incense asks for a ceramic holder and a window to be cracked. These are ceremonies. Six seconds is not a ceremony. It is a gesture, at most.

What a gesture needs, mechanically: one hand. Forward motion. A finish that is on the finger for no time at all, so the handle of the door is clean. A scent that is already in the room by the time the next person walks in — not one that layers over anything; just one that fills the corners and then gets quiet.

We started with this as a spec, not a story. Eighty-five millimetres by fifty-five by eighteen — the width of a credit card, flat enough to sit under a ring on the way in. A hinged nozzle so nothing clicks. Three sprays: one at the far wall, one over the basin, one toward the back of the room. One, two, three. About two seconds. The rest is walking out.

It is a small thing to have thought about. That, more than anything, is what we wanted Hush to be. A small thing, thought about very carefully, so that the gesture matches the length of what the room actually is.

Six seconds. Nobody needs to know.