That eastern wing, barely suggested from the previous vantage, now declares itself fully as you cross the threshold — the same hand-hewn limestone that anchored the corridor in Frisco carries forward here, though in Gadsden the massing shifts, the ceiling height draws upward, and the proportions take on a cathedral confidence that feels earned rather than imposed. The timber trusses overhead darken from honey to aged char, as if the wood itself has absorbed decades of bourbon country atmosphere, and the iron hardware marking each joist connection reads as both structural necessity and decorative restraint. Natural light enters from clerestory windows set high along the southern wall, washing the stone in a warm amber that moves perceptibly across the floor as afternoon deepens, pulling your attention toward Gainesville and the glass-walled passage that connects this volume to whatever the estate has been quietly saving for last.