La Conchiglia was born step by step, along a dusty path that crossed hills and villages. I was on the Camino de Santiago, with a backpack on my shoulders and a worn map in my hands. Every morning I woke to the sound of my own footsteps and every evening the road offered me shelter: an open door, a smile, a warm mattress. It was precisely in that rhythm of leaving and returning that the idea of a place to host travelers began to take root. One evening, on the beach of a small harbor where the path met the sea, I found a glossy shell abandoned in the sand. I picked it up and immediately felt something familiar: the simple, protective shape, the cavity that holds the sound of the world, the mark of every wave that had brushed it. The shell spoke to me of the home it protects, of the journey it welcomes, of the trace left by those who pass. I understood then that the name had to be La Conchiglia.