Memory begins at the threshold
Every entrance carries a measured sun, seven rays held above the lintel.
Iridescence stays mineral
Teal shifts toward green-blue, never pastel, like a feather under lamp oil.
Whitewash marks the valley
Shrine cones appear sparingly, bright enough to cut through indigo night.
Brass remembers the hand
Repoussé dots and gold borders make each plaque feel worked, not printed.