The rain shower announces the transition. Where bourbon-country bathrooms trade in clawfoot weight and oil-rubbed bronze, this enclosure strips everything back to frameless glass, matte fixtures, and a ceiling-mounted head that sends water straight down in a wide, even sheet — the kind of detail that belongs in a Malibu canyon house, not five miles from the county line. The stone underfoot is honed rather than polished, warm to the touch from radiant heat you only register once you stop moving. And you do stop, because the shower faces a clerestory window that frames nothing but canopy, and for the first time in the house the outdoors feels less like a Kentucky ridgeline and more like something the architecture is deliberately