The dwelling was shelter, kitchen, bed, and workshop. All in one. Life wasn't divided into compartments: it was shared. The stone hearth, always lit, was the gathering point at dusk. Around it, stews were cooked, stories were spun, objects were forged, and the whispers of the wind could be heard slipping through the cracks.
The ruins that now rest in the silence of archaeological sites are not just fallen stones: they are the remains of homes where life pulsed, where love was shared, laughter was shared, weaving was done, saying goodbye, and birth was shared.
Their architecture wasn't ostentatious, but it did know how to protect from the winter cold and the scorching heat. It knew how to orient itself toward the light, the wind, and the rhythms of the countryside.
In the larger rooms, some families kept their treasures: amphorae overflowing with oil, carefully painted vessels, and metal tools that reflected the shine of daily labor. The more spacious homes of the most powerful even housed places for debate or ancestor worship.
