Breglio and the House with the Whispering Floorboards

More about Breglio and the House with the Whispering Floorboards

It wasn't a path that led him there, but a sound. Quiet, like a thought running out, like the sound you hear when you're no longer listening. A whisper beneath the earth, where roots tell stories. Breglio listened. The lantern at his side glowed dimly. And with every step, the sound became clearer—not louder, just narrower, as if enveloping him. The house appeared where there hadn't been one before. No roof in sight, only a chimney rising from the crown of an old beech tree. Windows, half-blind, made of frosted glass. The walls seemed to be made of old doors—no two alike, all with their own bolts, cracks, and memories. The doorknob didn't turn; it trembled, as if afraid of being opened too soon. Breglio stepped inside. And immediately: the floorboards began to speak. Not with words. With breaths. With creaking that lasted too long, with wood fibers that stretched like voices. The imp's footsteps were answered. There was a crack under his left foot that sounded like laughter. A sigh outside the window, though the wind was silent outside. The whole room breathed—not in air, but in memory. "I didn't ask anything," Breglio murmured. But the house had already begun. Each room a chapter, each board a line. He strode through a corridor that smelled of past rain. On the walls hung pictures in which no faces could be recognized—only hints. Shadows behind windows, fingers on curtains. And again and again the whispering beneath his feet, as if the house were telling him stories that it only revealed as he walked. You had to keep walking to hear more. Upstairs, the sound was different. There, the whispering was no longer a whisper, but a searching. The floorboards beneath his steps asked back. Not a welcome. More like: Why now? Why you? Breglio paused in front of a door that wasn't one. Just an opening, outlined by nails without wood. Behind it: a room of floorboards, nothing more. No walls. No roof. Just floor—and above it, light that didn't come from the sun. In the middle of the room: a chair. Old, with a fabric that knew stories. And on it lay a note. Not paper, but wood—thinly sliced, like a floorboard itself. Carved on it: "Sit when you have heard." Breglio hesitated. Then he sat down. The floorboards fell silent. But in his head, something began to crack. Memories that weren't his. Places he'd never been, but recognized. Voices whispering: "Some paths sound before they begin." He lifted the wooden note. On the back: a carved melody. No notes, just lines—like footsteps on old wood. And he understood: The house had remembered. Not him. But through him. When he stood up again, the floorboards no longer whispered. They sang.