At night, the house glows from within. The walls catch the lamplight and scatter it like sunlight through amber. No corners, no shadows—just the steady pulse of warmth.
He keeps no television, no loud appliances. Only a record player, an old armchair, and the soft hum of wind passing through vents cut by hand.
“Sometimes I forget it’s underground,” he says. “Then I hear the rain on the rock, and it feels like the world is tucking me in.”
Every space here tells the same story: patience turned into beauty, silence turned into shelter, ambition turned into peace.
