southern lawn, and here in Richmond the promise implicit in that gesture finds its fullest expression, for the corridor narrows to a single plane of board-formed concrete before releasing into a double-height gallery where the ceiling lifts away like a held breath and the walnut millwork that lined every previous passage suddenly gives way to raw limestone, as though the house has decided to stop curating and start confessing. Where Racine offered compression and craft, Richmond answers with volume and geological honesty, the aggregate face of each stone block catching the clerestory light in a way that makes the wall itself seem to breathe with the shifting afternoon. This is the pivot point the plan has been building toward, the moment where the southern wing stops reaching and arrives, planting itself against the ridge with a confidence that reframes every room that came before it. The floor drops a single step here, barely perceptible, but enough to shift the body's center of gravity and draw the eye forward through the glass toward Roanoke's tree line, where the next movement already