Beyond the dining dome, a narrow tunnel leads to a terrace carved directly into the cliff. From here the valley unfolds—a sea of grass, slow-moving clouds, the hum of insects miles below.
He built a single stone bench along the edge, wide enough for two. “I eat breakfast here every day,” he says. “It reminds me how small I am, and how much space there still is to dream.”
The cave exhales with him. Warm air drifts out of the entryway, cool air pulls in. The house breathes like a living thing.
At sunset, the stone turns amber, and the light crawling across the walls feels almost human—gentle, fleeting, alive.
