The House Beyond the Veil

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Nilo climbed through the gap in the old brick wall as if it had been made for him. He wasn't sure why he had taken this path today. The path was little more than a suggestion between ferns and roots, and yet it had led him there quite naturally. Tamé, his black cat, glided behind him with the silent elegance of thought. Her eyes sparkled like two small moons. Before them lay a garden that didn't really seem to belong to the rest of the world. The light shimmered differently here—softer, as if filtered through time. A winding gravel path wound through flowers that behaved not like plants, but like friendly sentinels. They barely moved, but they looked as if they noticed everything. "There it is," whispered Nilo. The house. Painted green, with shutters that looked like half-closed eyelids. On the roof sat a small chimney, from which no smoke rose, but it still smelled of something warm—like freshly baked bread and cinnamon bark. The door was old but well-kept. The wood showed cracks that formed patterns, as if someone had deliberately carved them. Nilo and Tamé sat on the broken edge of the old wall. The boy dangled his legs, his heels tapping gently against the stone. Tamé sat close to him, his tail wrapped around his paws, and looked at the house with half-closed eyes. A gust of wind brushed against them, bringing with it the scent of damp grass and something vague—something that smelled of memory. "I dreamed about it," Nilo said softly. "But it was night. And fireflies everywhere." Tamé meowed, softly and approvingly. They sat like that for a while, silent, like two pages of a book that hadn't been opened yet. Then Tamé jumped down, with that confidence only cats possess when they know they're on the right track. Nilo followed her, feeling the gravel beneath his shoes, like softly speaking stones. Each of his steps felt a little solemn, as if he were crossing a boundary others had never noticed. The gate in the white fence opened with a gentle clink—not a mechanical sound, more like an old musical toy. Beyond it, the garden stretched out, as if it grew larger the further you went in. Small acorn caps lay along the path, as if someone had welcomed tiny visitors. Tamé padded ahead, but then turned sideways and disappeared between two bushes. Nilo stood alone in front of the door. He raised his hand—hesitated. Then he placed his fingers on the wood. It felt warm. Not like something alive—more like a book you know but haven't touched in a long time. The door didn't open. But it asked. Not with words. With a feeling. Like a quiet "Are you ready?" Nilo nodded. In that moment, the air changed. Not visible, but tangible. The garden grew quieter, the light deeper, the house a touch more attentive. And yet nothing threatening happened. Only an invitation.