Whispers Beneath the Moonlit Eaves

About the Space

The grounds, though touched by wildness, flourished with a certain whimsical disorder: vines climbed the façades not in strangling fury, but in playful spirals, tracing arabesques across weathered masonry. The air around the house carried a hush not of foreboding, but of expectation, as though the breeze itself paused to listen for some long-remembered melody drifting from forgotten chambers. Inside, corridors wandered away in gentle, meandering lines, offering glimpses of carved banisters, faded tapestries, and rooms suspended between slumber and waking. Floorboards murmured softly beneath one’s steps, their whispers closer to greeting than groan. Even the shadows—stretched across corners and alcoves—seemed merely contemplative, lingering like thoughtful guests.