
A real house is not a wall or a roof, but a place where you can hear grass grow over your head, and the silk of leaves sings a lullaby for a tired soul.




Where a soft light from a round window becomes not just a light, but an invitation to enter a world where time is slower and happiness is closer.

And outside, this warm light merges with the glowing firefly dance, and I can’t figure out where the house ends and the fairy tale begins.