The old house sat at the end of the village street, its stone walls wrapped in thick ivy. Under the wide starlit sky, it swelled and pulled back, slow as a sleeping chest.
Maryam and Younes pressed their faces to the cool stone. The house stretched, then pulled back again. "It's breathing again!" Younes whispered, tugging her sleeve.
A dry leaf snapped off the creaking ivy above them. It drifted down and landed right on Maryam's shoulder. She held very still, watching it tremble.
Maryam crawled along the base of the house, following thick roots that poked through cracks in the dirt. They snaked under the stone like long, old fingers.
Younes shoved his tiny flashlight into the gaps in the wall. Its beam caught small holes where air hissed in, and out, and in again.
A root snapped back and booped Maryam square on the nose. She sneezed so hard she toppled sideways into the creaking ivy. "Hachoo!"
Maryam gripped a vine as thick as her arm and tugged. It didn't budge. She tugged harder, planting her boots in the dirt. Still nothing.
Younes counted the roots wrapping the walls—"one, two, three, four"—then kicked a pebble in frustration. It rolled away with a small *ting* and vanished under the vines.
Maryam pointed at the dark, pinched gaps where thick roots pressed against the stone. "It's choking," she said, her voice small against the creaking ivy.
They snipped the thickest vines—snap, snap, snap—until one ancient root popped loose with a loud THWACK. The whole house shuddered, drew in one long, long breath, and the ivy went quiet under the wide stars.
The next night, they sat on the sidewalk, knees drawn up. The house still swelled and contracted, but slow and soft now—a tiny, steady rhythm.
Younes tapped the warm stone with his heel and murmured, "Goodnight." Maryam waved at the house, then walked home under the wide, quiet sky.