A cantilevered room held above the tree line. Board-formed concrete, a timber core, one warm light kept burning.
The fog takes the valley every evening. The house lets it.

Every surface that meets the hand is timber; everything that meets the weather is stone. The shelves carry the only light the house needs after dark.

The glazing runs unbroken along the fall line. Inside stays still. Outside, the weather does what it wants with the pines.

The living room ends where the mountain does not follow. Below the slab there is only weather.

There is no gate and no sign. The stair is cut from the ridge itself, and the house does the welcoming with light alone.
