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The Summer House Is Open
She arrives before the heat sets in, when the mornings are still cool and the days feel full of promise. The doors are thrown open. Light spills in, brushing the walls and waking the space from its quiet slumber.
Everything feels new again. The linens are crisp, the shelves half-empty, the corners waiting to be filled with the season’s slow accumulation of moments—flowers, books, sun hats, sandals.
There’s a hush to it all. The kind that only exists in places untouched for a while. Dust glows in the morning light. The air smells faintly of stone, linen, and something green….
Everything feels possible here—quiet mornings, open windows, and time that stretches gently forward.
The space holds its breath, waiting to be filled with the slow beauty of the season.
This is the start. A blank canvas. The summer house is open.