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There is a deep, unhurried charm in these spaces. Wrought iron beds draped in hand-stitched linens, heavy wooden cupboards filled with mismatched ceramics, and shelves lined with books passed down through generations. In the corner, an old armchair slouched in the sunlight, its fabric threadbare but dignified, like an elder content with its years.
Light filtered in through lace curtains, that moved with the breeze. Dust caught in the sunbeams gives the air a golden weight, as if even time moves more slowly here. The scent of wood smoke lingers faintly.
As I move from room to room, sketching and absorbing the textures and patina, the warmth of terracotta underfoot, and the scuffed edges of a marble-topped table where generations had gathered.
These interiors weren’t styled, they were lived. They offered something rare: an authenticity and beauty that came not from perfection, but from memory made visible.