Fonkel

A child lives in the attic. The child is small, but the attic is definitely too small. And children grow. So, too, does the attic. Often it’s also too warm. And too loud. The train drags itself through the city from the early hours, screeching along its elevated track, seeming to ride just above the rooftops.

The largest attic possible. A simple question, answered by a complex roof. On two sides, the connection with the neighbours is preserved. The roof is kind. On the sides facing away, it grows. Both towards the front and the back. The negotiation between maximum headroom and the rest of the roof shape produces facets, like a cut gemstone, every angle deliberately chosen.

The bright stone glints. The tiles are white, bouncing the sunlight back to where it came from. The insulation helps buffer both heat and noise. There are windows, distorted echoes of others in the front façade. Each with its own little roof; the eaves stretch out to shield them from the sun. The underside needn’t be white, no sunlight reaches there. A soft salmon pink adds a sense of warmth. Beneath the roof lies one room and a stairwell. The roof is complex enough. Below, things may be simpler. A single partition sits between stair and room, sometimes a cupboard, sometimes a door.

An attic like a crow’s nest, a wizard’s study. Complex trusses and castle-like windows gazing out at the train gliding past, just above the roofs.