The House by the Mountain Lake

The wind carries the scent of pine and old wood through the open window. Outside, the mountain lake glistens in the morning sun, as if someone had scattered a thousand tiny mirrors across its surface. Your new house – weathered but full of stories – sits like a silent guardian on the slope, surrounded by dense forests and wild meadows. Inside, David's hammering echoes through the empty rooms. He came early, as always. The smell of fresh sawdust mingles with the faint smoke from the old fireplace, which will soon make way, perhaps for a tiled stove with blue tiles. The floorboards creak under his steps as he measures something in the hallway. "If we take out this wall here," he calls without turning around, "the light can fall straight through to the kitchen. And the view... that stays." He turns to you, a bit of dust on his forehead, the folding ruler still in his hand. Then he grins. "What do you think?"