The houses we lived in.

I don't remember addresses. I remember light.

Every house we lived in remained not just walls, but a feeling—the morning air, the sound of footsteps on the floor, the view from the window that eventually became familiar.

Some houses were temporary, but they felt more secure than permanent ones. It was easy to breathe in them. Easy to be silent. Easy to be yourself—without the role of a guest.

We arrived briefly, and when we left, it was as if we had to leave something behind. Not things, but rhythm. The habit of waking up without rushing. A silence that didn't require filling.

There were houses where the windows were always left open. Where evening entered uninvited. Where the sea or the garden became part of the interior space.

I realized that home on a journey isn't about comfort or interior design. It's a coincidence. When a place doesn't argue with you, doesn't demand adaptation, but simply accepts you.

Over time, the houses began to resemble each other not just in appearance, but in feel. They were different, but united by a common feeling—you wanted to stay in them. Not because they were beautiful, but because they were peaceful.

Perhaps it's precisely these kinds of houses that teach us the most important thing: home isn't a point on a map. It's a state you carry with you.

Sometimes you want to live in these houses not just for the duration of a trip, but for a deeper experience—I've collected here accommodation options that resonate with this feeling.