The house made noises.
Always had.
Creaks. Sighs. Groans in the beams, like it was tired of standing for so long.
Mama said "Old houses talk when they're sleepy."
But tonight, the sounds were different.
Not tired.
Not sleepy.
Speaking.
It started as a low thumping.
Like something — or someone — was knocking gently under my feet.
Then it became faster.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I pressed my ear against the floor.
And I swear, I heard it:
"Lu…cas…"
I jerked back. My breath hitched.
Was it the wind?
No.
The wind doesn't say my name.
I stayed awake the whole night.
Holding the book.
The one Mama gave me.The one that knows me better than I do.
I wanted to throw it into the corner.
I wanted to burn it.
But instead…
I opened to a random page.
And read:
"I saw his face today. Through the floorboards. He doesn't know I'm watching."
I closed the book again.
And whispered to the air:
"Who… are you?"
The next morning, Mama finally came.
Her hair looked messy.
Her hands were shaking as she placed the tray through the hatch.
"Did you read it?" she asked, without looking at me.
I didn't answer.
She looked up — eyes wild, tired.
"You have to understand," she said. "I didn't lie. I just… kept you safe."
Then she slammed the hatch shut and walked away.
I didn't touch the food.
I opened the hatch slowly after I was sure she was gone.
Below, the staircase creaked like it hadn't been stepped on in years.
I leaned forward.
Listened.
And down below, I heard it again:
"Lucas… I remember you."