We often imagine a home as a flawless refuge, a sanctuary where every corner, every surface, holds the promise of comfort and security. Yet, the truth of dwelling lies not in perfection but in imperfection—those moments when the walls leak their secrets, the rooms resist warmth, and the very plans that promised completeness reveal their cracks. No home is truly yours until it has disappointed you. This statement holds a deep architectural and existential tension, inviting us to reconsider what it means to belong, to inhabit, and to live intimately

In the architecture of shelter, where walls stand firm as sentinels against the unpredictable world, there exists a singular point of paradox—the door. Unlike the steadfast barrier of walls that encase and protect, the door must betray the home’s very purpose by opening, yielding, and inviting the outside in. This architectural contradiction is not a flaw but a fundamental truth: the house begins where it is most vulnerable. How do we reconcile this delicate tension between protection and openness? What does it mean that the very element designed to secure