On the outskirts of Seville, in a town where orange trees mark the rhythm of the sidewalks and whitewashed houses stand the test of time, a bright house opens up, welcoming you into a familiar setting. This time, two sisters arrive with their daughters to spend a few days with their family. They do so with the ease of someone returning to a familiar place, needing no explanation.

As soon as they step through the door, the girls rush in excitedly, as if the space recognizes them. They rush up the stairs, eager to wash their hands so they can start playing. Their voices mingle with the sound of footsteps, and everything happens in motion.

Behind them, their mothers walk calmly, carrying shopping bags, heading to the kitchen and settling in without ceremony. The spacious, open kitchen is the meeting point from which everything is organized. There are no strict divisions: the dining room, the patio, the pantry, and the central island form a seamless whole. The transition between preparing, sharing, and conviviality is completely fluid.

Here, each element serves a clear purpose. The island, facing the patio, allows for preparing meals without losing sight of the girls while they play outside. It also offers a generous countertop where several people can collaborate at the same time, and low drawers that keep everything you need within easy reach. On one side, a row of columns houses appliances and storage, providing functionality without overwhelming the space. The result is clean, comfortable, and complete.

The scenes follow one another effortlessly. One of the sisters arranges fruit, while the other organizes what they've brought from the market. The girls soon approach, curious, and settle down at the dining room table with pencils and paper. They draw while setting plates, filling water glasses, and discussing the day's plans. From that kitchen, you can see everything: the dining room, the patio, the tree. There's no need to move around or divide tasks. Everyday life is shared from a single place.

The orange tree, in the center of the courtyard, gives the house its name and meaning. From the countertop, its silhouette appears as a constant. The house seems to have folded around it, as if recognizing its value. Cooking facing outward is not an aesthetic gesture, but a way of integrating the rhythm of the interior with what happens outside. Opening the kitchen to the courtyard not only visually expands the space: it allows everything to be connected.

In this house, the kitchen isn't an isolated room or a secluded corner. It's the hub from which life unfolds. Chopping vegetables, preparing recipes, taking a tray out of the oven, cleaning up afterward... everything happens while someone draws, another sets the table, or another returns from the patio with chalk-stained hands.

On any given afternoon, light streams in through the large windows and the sounds of outside seep in through the open doors. You can hear laughter, cross-talk, and tasks overlapping without hindering each other. The kitchen is in use. And even if nothing extraordinary happens, everything is found in this shared routine: the bond, the memory, the joy of doing things together calmly.