It's not a
candy machine.

I don't think I'm selling candy. I know that's a strange thing to say when you're looking at a vending machine, but stay with me.

Think about the first time a candy bar felt like a gift. Maybe a parent handed it to you at a checkout counter. Or maybe you were somewhere far from home — a train platform in another country, a little shop where you couldn't read a single label — and you tried something you'd never seen before, and it became the thing. The taste of that trip. The taste of being small and looked after.

Then you grew up. You went looking for it again. And it was gone — not sold anywhere near you, and when you tried to describe it, people just shrugged.

That feeling, chasing something you can't quite get back, is what I built the Vault for.

I grew up overseas, moving around more than most kids do. The one constant was what I'd carry home in my suitcase: sodas and snacks from everywhere I'd been, things nobody back home had ever heard of. My friends went a little crazy for them. That suitcase — covered in stickers from every place I landed — is the machine you're standing in front of right now.

So no, it's not a candy machine. It's a way back. Every drop is something rare, something from somewhere, something that might just be your memory sitting on a shelf, waiting.

I built the Vault to give people a path back to their memories. Come find yours.

— Jenna