The kitchen was the first thing that made the tower feel like a real home. Not luxurious. Just complete. Italian tile lined the floor beneath a long counter fitted with double sinks and neatly built cabinets. A butcher-block table sat near the windows, catching light from almost every direction as the harbor shimmered far below. Even the shutters felt intentional. Automatic panels could seal sections of the tower against strong coastal winds, turning the open structure into something surprisingly quiet.
She moved through the space like someone following routines she’d repeated for years. Nothing felt difficult or inconvenient despite the height. And she lived there alone. That part surprised us more than the tower itself. Because despite how large the structure looked from outside, there wasn’t a single part of it that felt abandoned or unused. The bedrooms upstairs were spotless. Built-in bureaus curved neatly into the walls while recessed televisions and carefully arranged storage made every room feel active, not forgotten.
Nothing felt empty. It felt like someone had spent years making the tower work exactly the way they wanted it to. And before we could ask how long she’d been there—she smiled and told us to keep going up.