Domus 100 Site

Upon death, Domus 100 performs its final act. It erases your immediate biometric data, seals the transept, and offers the structure to a new inhabitant—but only after a ritual erasure called the Hundred Day Hollow . For one hundred days, the house plays no music, heats no water, opens no shutters. It becomes a mausoleum of air. Then, with the consent of your estate, it is reset: partitions return to neutral positions, handrails retract, the digital twin is wiped. A new infant is placed in the same nursery corner, and the ginkgo tree begins another century.

Every Domus 100 includes a final, optional chamber: the transept . This is not a bedroom or a sickroom. It is a space of deliberate withdrawal, oriented toward the rising or setting sun by your own recorded wish. Its walls are porous to sound but not to interruption. When biometrics indicate the approach of the final seventy-two hours, the room regulates itself to your comfort profile from age twenty-five—the temperature, the light spectrum, the smell of rain on dry soil you once loved. You die not in a strange white bed, but in the memory of your own vitality, held by the only building that ever truly knew you. domus 100

Below the physical floor, a substrate of fiber optics and piezoelectric sensors forms a diagnostic nervous system. Domus 100 tracks not just motion but intention: the pause before a step, the tremor in a coffee cup, the silence where a nightly radio habit used to be. Its AI—trained not on population data but on your unique biographic rhythm—distinguishes a bad night from a stroke. It calls for help only when you cannot. It never announces itself as a nurse; it expresses care as architecture: a handrail that glows softly at 3 a.m., a floor that warms where you are about to step. Upon death, Domus 100 performs its final act

Detractors call Domus 100 an elegant cage. They argue that the centenary home is a fantasy of radical individualism, a denial of the village, a refusal of the intergenerational friction that actually makes life textured. To live a hundred years in one shell, they say, is not mastery but ossification. True longevity is not about never moving; it is about moving through many homes, many roles, many hands held. It becomes a mausoleum of air

Domus 100’s answer is not to reject the village but to invert it. The house is not a fortress; it is a rotating social hub. Its reconfigureable walls expand for Thanksgiving with thirty people and contract for a solitary Tuesday. The second floor includes a guest apartment that changes tenants every few years—a young artist, a divorced sibling, a grandchild in transition—so that the centenarian is never alone with only machines. The house curates chosen family as carefully as it curates light.