At the edge of June, we traded the salt and rhythm of Miami for the hush of Tennessee hills. We stayed in Kingston Springs, tucked away in a house that felt more like a gentle invitation than a rental. Decorated in the quiet luxury of Restoration Hardware tones—linen sofas, soft neutrals, moody lighting—it had a piano in the corner, a banjo hanging on the wall, and a guitar leaning in wait. Music felt like part of the architecture.

Mornings started slowly. Steam curled from coffee mugs while rabbits hopped across the dewy front lawn like they owned the place. The kids played in socked feet, chasing each other between wooden beams and window light. It was a different rhythm—a little looser, a little softer.

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