Not every home has walls.
Not every roof is made of tiles.
Some homes live inside us —
in the way we speak to ourselves when we’re lost,
in the memories we protect when the world forgets,
in the people we let stay,
and the ones we learn to release.

The house I carry isn’t drawn in blueprints.
It’s a constellation of choices, of truths felt too deeply to be said aloud.
A shelter made of silence and presence.
A soft light left on in case someone finds their way back.
Sometimes, I think presence is the architecture of care.

And sometimes —
you are someone’s home
without knowing it.