“You’re wondering how the water works,” she said. It wasn’t a guess. It was obvious. Mara stepped outside and pointed up toward the roof. At first, it looked ordinary. But up close, you could see the slight angles built into it—just enough to guide rainwater toward narrow channels running along the edges. Everything led somewhere. “To the tanks,” she said, gesturing behind the house. Rainwater. Collected, stored, used carefully.
We followed her back inside, expecting the limitations to show there. They didn’t. The bathroom was small, but complete. A proper sink. A toilet. Even a bathtub tucked neatly along one side, fitted into the space like it had always belonged there. Nothing felt makeshift. Nothing felt missing. “It rains enough,” she added. “I’ve never had a shortage.” And standing there, it was hard to argue with that.
Because for something that depended entirely on the weather it didn’t feel uncertain at all to her.