Those little wooden discs are the quiet evidence of a century-long argument between plaster and gravity. Old lath-and-plaster ceilings don’t fail all at once; they loosen, sag, conspire. Instead of ripping everything out, someone chose mercy over demolition. They cut wooden circles, drove screws through them into the lath above, and gently pulled the wounded ceiling back into place. Each disc is a bandage, a compromise, a decision not to start over from zero.
You might find them only in one room—the worst room, the wettest room, the one that took the hit when a pipe burst or a roof leaked. You can hide them under mud and paint, erase the evidence, pretend the ceiling was always this smooth. Or you can leave them visible, like stitches after surgery, proof that somebody once cared enough to fix instead of discard. In a world obsessed with new, those odd little circles quietly honor the stubborn art of keeping things alive.
