On a cramped, tree-filled plot in Cetinje, we were asked to fit a hospital into a box that already felt full. Instead of fighting the limits, we leaned into them. A simple gabled volume; an echo of every modest house in Montenegro, stripped bare and stretched just enough to feel new. White, calm, almost mute. The familiar roof hides mechanical clutter and opens skylights; the ordinary becomes accomplice to light and air. Program follows the sun and the trees. North side: untouched forest and cool service corridors. South side: clinics drink daylight, each floor with its own nursing island and waiting pocket framed by branches. Below grade, radiology and support spaces borrow light through a soft green slope that refuses to admit it is a basement. No grand gestures, no heroic landscaping. Just a building that preserves every existing tree, slips an ambulance under the canopy, and lets patients look out at the same mist the tripod models once stared into. A small hospital that keeps watch, quietly convinced that healing already lives in the ordinary ; if you let the ordinary stay strange enough.