It began on a damp Kentucky morning. The kind that smells of oak, rain, and something distant—something earned. In the warehouses of W.L. Weller, a master distiller once whispered to a cigar man from Havana, “What if the barrels could dream again?” And they did. Months later, those same bourbon barrels found new purpose, now cradling dark, oily leaves of tobacco instead of spirit. The aroma that rose from them was a paradox of earth and fire, sweetness and char. It was the sc
