The bedroom sits deeper in the rock, where silence becomes a sound of its own. The walls curve inward like a cupped hand, wrapping the bed in a kind of geological hush.
There are no sharp corners—only the slow rhythm of stone and shadow. Morning light seeps in through a hidden shaft, arriving soft and slanted, as if it had to travel centuries to reach the room.
He left the ceiling raw here, the chisel marks visible. “I like reminders that I did this,” he says. “It’s not perfect, it’s alive.”
Every line in the stone tells a story: the ocean that once covered this hill, the fossils pressed into the walls like ancient memories of movement.
