The house was older than anyone imagined.
And the stories woven into its walls stretched across lifetimes—threads tangled and frayed, but never broken.
Lina found the first sign of Anna's legacy tucked beneath a loose floorboard in the attic room.
It was a folded piece of paper, yellowed and delicate, sealed with a careful crease.
She opened it with trembling fingers.
Inside, a note—written in a hand both firm and uncertain.
"To whoever finds this—
The house listens. It remembers. It waits.
But be careful what you ask it to show you.
Not every shadow is ready for the light.
—Anna"*
Lina's heart skipped.
She pressed the paper to her chest.
Anna's words felt like a key.
Over the next days, Lina began discovering more.
In the attic's dusty corners, faint drawings scratched into the walls—symbols Anna had left behind.
Maps of the hidden doors. Warnings written in invisible ink only the house could reveal.
And in the quiet moments, Lina heard Anna's voice—soft, protective—a whisper carried on the wind:
"You're not alone."
One evening, as Lina sat beside the little room behind the closet door, Annora spoke quietly:
"Anna was the first to walk this path. She tried to carry the house's weight, but it almost broke her."
Lina looked up.
"Is that why you're teaching me?"
Annora nodded.
"Because the house changes.
And now it needs you."
That night, Lina dreamed of Anna.
Not as a memory, but as a presence.
Walking through the halls, brushing dust from a forgotten mirror.
Her eyes steady.
Her voice a promise.
"Remember.
Listen.
Protect."
The legacy was no longer just Anna's.
It was Lina's.
And the house held its breath.
Waiting for the next whisper.