shifts from the Laredo-like compression of that corridor into something altogether more generous. Here in the Largo of the home, ceiling planes lift away from you with the quiet authority of a held breath finally released, and the same unhurried materiality—those warm wood grains, the deliberate concrete reveals—persists even as the spatial register expands dramatically around you. Light enters not from one direction but from several, pooling on the floor in overlapping geometries that make the room feel as though it is breathing in tandem with the grounds beyond the glass. The effect is one of arrival without finality, a room that gathers you in while already gesturing toward the luminous passage at Las Cruces where