distinctive interplay of shadow and substance, where the corridor's narrowing resolve delivers you into a space that trades Marquette's hushed restraint for something more forthright—McComb's contribution to this estate reads like a declaration made in natural stone and hand-rubbed walnut, surfaces that catch the bourbon-country light and hold it rather than deflect it. The proportions here shift almost imperceptibly wider, the ceiling lifting just enough to signal that the home is beginning to breathe differently as it moves through its own geography. There is weight in these materials, an honest density that grounds you even as the sightline ahead begins to lengthen, drawing your attention toward Medford's