When I stand before an old house marked by time, I feel myself stopping without thinking. The patched slate roof, the cracks along the faded walls, and the texture of age remind me of the surface of a painting — layered, weathered, quietly beautiful. A small garden at the entrance, with pots of flowers cared for with affection, holds me there a little longer.
In these houses, I sense the accumulation of time: colors softened by the sun, marks left by repair, and traces of the hands that tended the place. Each one stands in its own tone and rhythm, holding memories the way a painting holds pigments.

Although the house says nothing, it speaks. It carries stories in its silence — stories of people who lived, loved, waited, and stayed. In those moments, I become like a butterfly resting on its wall, or a cat wandering through its rooms, inhabiting its time just for a while.

This work reflects the quiet beauty of ordinary homes that breathe with history. It invites viewers to pause, listen, and step into the soft memory of a house — where time does not disappear, but settles like warm light.