In Houses with courtyards, summers don’t stay outside. It settles right in the middle.

She grows up around it — walking along the edges, keeping to the shade, never really stepping into the centre for long.

It’s always too much there.
Too bright. Too open.

Until one summer, it doesn’t.
She stops avoiding it, walks straight through, then slows down and stays.

Nothing dramatic changes — just the way she holds herself.

What once felt like afterthought, begins to settle differently.
Ease remains, but becomes composed.

Loose, but held.
Relaxed, but contained.

Colours feel like they’ve always belonged there.

Warm, sun-touched, lived in —
with light breaking through in sharp clarity.

And somewhere between repetition and stillness, a rhythm begins to stay,
the kind you only notice when you finally stand still.

By the end of that summer, the courtyard doesn’t feel too much anymore.
It feels like hers.