When I see an old house bearing traces of repair and care, I find myself pausing before it.
The patched slate panels on the roof and the cracked, faded walls evoke the texture of painting.
The small garden and pots, lovingly tended, with their modest blossoms, make me linger even longer.

As I look around — at the sun-faded colors, the marks of mending, the traces of hands that shaped the space —
each house seems to hold layers of time within.
Every home stands quietly in its own color, embracing its own time.

The house speaks silently, telling its story.
At times, I become a butterfly, or a cat, dwelling for a moment within the time of the house.