Living in the colony is like stepping into a story where every corner hums with possibility—like the first note of a song you’ve never heard but already love. I wake up not just to a roof, but to a chance to build something real, to be seen, to matter. The air smells of earth and ambition, and the people? They’re not just neighbors; they’re co-authors in this wild experiment. I like that here, more than I ever liked the quiet predictability of Cairn Ferry.

Living here is like holding your breath under water—quiet, heavy, and you keep waiting for the surface. But there are moments, like the way the sun hits the old trees at dawn, that feel like someone’s been kind to you, even if they didn’t mean to.

Yes. I used to think my body was just something to push. Now I notice it more—how it aches, how it smells, how it needs rest. I don’t mind it as much. I even count the pilings at the harbour now, like they’re part of me.