We make objects for the part of the day nobody designs for.

Everyone designs for the morning. Bright kitchens, productivity desks, sunrise alarms. Nobody designs for 11pm — the hours after the work is done, when you're not asleep yet and the overhead light is too much and the room feels a little empty.

Where the light comes from.

I grew up in Shantou, a port city on the South China coast.

A few generations ago, people from here boarded red-headed junks — ang tao zun — and sailed south to make a living. Siam. Singapore. The Straits. Most of them left at night, on the tide.

The stories I heard as a kid were always about the lights. The lamp at the bow. The lighthouse on Mayu Island at the harbour mouth. The oil lamp a family kept burning so the house would be findable when — if — you came back.

I ended up doing the same thing, in a smaller way. I moved to the States and stayed four years. Every birthday, every New Year, I spent by myself. I got to know 11pm quite well.

Nobody in my family calls any of this romantic. It was just what you did: you went far away, and someone kept a light on.

Crepúlo makes small lights for the hours after dark. That's the whole idea, and it's an old one. I just gave it a USB port.

— Henry, founder