When I tilt my head back in our
100-year-old townhouse, the first thing I see is something that would puzzle
most children of today—yet it has been part of my world for as long as I can
remember. It isn’t a lamp, nor a skylight in the modern sense, but a little
square of glass embedded right into the terrace.
Picture this, my dear Alpha: a
neat square of thick glass, framed by rough cement, set slightly higher than
the flat roof around it. In the middle of the day, the sun finds this square
and pours its brightness through, spilling golden light right into the heart of
our living room. No switches, no wires—just nature lending its glow.
At night, if luck is on our side, we catch sight of the moon slipping through that same pane, its silver light brushing across our walls. Imagine the surprise of sitting in a dim room and suddenly spotting the moon’s face framed in glass above you, like a secret visitor.
This square is not just a
practical invention—it is a storyteller of its own. It speaks of a time when
houses breathed through open spaces, when ventilation and light were crafted
thoughtfully, not plugged in. For me, it is a reminder that even simple designs
can connect us to the rhythms of the sky.
So, Alpha, next time you look up
from wherever you are, I want you to imagine this piece of glass in our old
house—a quiet square of light that has watched generations before you and now
waits to watch yours.
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