A room is a blank page—an invitation to dance. I listen to the way your footsteps might fall, where the light pools like spilled honey, how the air might sigh against fabric. Then, I weave in wood that still smells of forests, tiles kissed by artisan hands, and textiles that remember the loom. If a ceiling feels too heavy, I’ll lighten it with a floating canopy; if a corner feels lonely, I’ll coax in a window to flirt with the sun. This isn’t decoration—it’s alchemy. And yes, if I have to barter with a midnight market vendor for the last scrap of hand-blocked linen, I will.