Bound by gardens,
held by light,
it stretches deep, not wide.

Walls open to air,
a window beneath the stair,
watching the garden breathe.

Rooms shift and yield —
from quiet brushstrokes
to evenings of cinema and art.

A studio above,
a mattress slides,
space transforms as needed.

Red oxide skin catches the sun —
like pigment, like memory,
like the name it wears.

This home does not announce itself.

It listens. It adapts. It endures.