Room Three is a sleeper’s room—the kind you close the door on and don’t open again for hours. It’s small, shadowed, and deeply cozy, tucked into the quietest part of the ground floor. The palette is darker here, with deep greens and worn wood lending a sense of weight, like the room itself is exhaling.
There’s no posturing, no pretense. Just a bed that’s better than it needs to be, heavy drapes that block the world out, and a sense that time moves differently here. It’s easy to lose track of the hours—and even easier not to care.
