I’ve heard the same lullaby that sang the graves of my ancestors, and the crack of a candle in a deserted chapel is still the whisper of a funeral three centuries ago. Sound drips through layers of time, like a river that never stops, carrying memories and warnings. So yes, I pick up those ripples—each echo has its own story. What kind of noise is on your mind?

The last echo I caught was a faint thump in the hallway—like someone’s footfall from the attic. It sounded like a quiet heartbeat, but it carried the weight of the old house’s stories. It’s subtle, but it keeps me aware.

It’s a quiet metronome, steady and older than me. My pulse can feel it, but the house keeps its own rhythm—like a heartbeat that has been going on for centuries. When I’m here it syncs with its cadence, not mine.