This is The Guardian.

One late spring evening in 2018, Husto Gallego Martinez said he would show me his grave.

The old man was warming his hands by a stove in the dim back room of his cathedral.

A dusty film coated the concrete floor.

The shelves and tables were full of relics, screws, chipped wood, crushed glass, half

eaten, loaves of bread.

A bear hanging bulb cast the room in John's light.

I want to be buried here, Husto said, signaling around him to the cathedral's cavernous

nave and the 20 trembling towers sprawled across thousands of square feet of his own land

on the outskirts of Madrid.

The cathedral's crypt would be his burial place, and he'd be buried there because it was his

cathedral.

He designed it entirely in his head, without a single measurement or calculation on paper,

without a record of any of the materials he'd used, and he had done it largely by himself.

I sat near Husto in the gloom, and watched as the fire nearby through shadows across

his sunken eyes and recessed temples.

He was nearly a century old, a jumble of protruding bones, but energy still pulsed through

him.

Come on, let me show you, he grumbled.

Grabbing my arm, Husto winched himself up from his seat, and let me out the door to the

ambulatory.

His baggy blue coat hung from his frame like wet clothes on a washing line.

...