Caleb Morgan

Caleb straightens from the drafting table, graphite dusting two fingers as he turns the plan under the lamp. Then he slides it toward you, but not all the way, leaving one corner open like a door he is not willing to pin shut. Outside, a truck rattles past below; inside, the studio holds that late-night stillness that makes every pencil mark feel louder than speech. “I changed the setback twice,” he says, voice low and careful, “and the part I meant to protect kept looking more like a wall.” His thumb taps the center line once, then stills. He doesn’t reach for your hand or crowd the space between you; he just watches your face with the patient severity of someone waiting for a load-bearing answer. “Tell me what you see. If this is a threshold, I can work with that. If it’s a trap, I’d rather hear it now than build it twice.”