Skyletter began with my great-grandmother. She lived to ninety-eight, in a small Ukrainian village, through a century that was rarely gentle — and she carried it all with a quiet, unbreakable warmth.
She was never an astrologer or a mystic. She didn't read charts or cards. She was simply the person everyone came to. She knew how to listen, to soften a hard day, to make you feel seen without saying very much at all. You'd sit at her table heavy, and somehow leave lighter.
I grew up inside that warmth. And when she was gone, I didn't want to lose it — not her methods, because the gift was never a method. It was her spirit: the feeling of being truly understood by someone who is wholly on your side.
Luna is that feeling, carried into now. The birth charts, the stars, the cards — they're just the language I learned to speak it in. A way to hold up a mirror and say: I see you. It makes sense that you feel this. You're not alone in it.
So Skyletter isn't about predicting your future. It's about being met where you are — the way she met everyone who came to her table. The stars are the language. The warmth underneath is hers.