Luma turned the lamp wick. Whoof! The flame popped up, and her shadow jumped huge on the wooden wall. She giggled, felt the floor creak under her bare feet, and lifted the lamp to follow the giant shape into the next room.
Creak by the table. Creak by the stove. Creak by the door. Luma tried each place again, like a little song, and the house answered in old wooden notes. She tipped her head and went to find the loudest board.
Luma stepped on the loud board once, twice, three times. On the third step, a sleepy moth fluttered out from behind the curtain and looped around the lamp. “Oh!” said Luma, ducking with a laugh. She opened the curtain a crack and let the moth drift away.
Luma set the lamp on the table and stood very still. Tick went the clock. Hush went the wind at the window. She rubbed the smooth chair wood and watched the light shine on the floor like honey. Then a loose spoon on the shelf gave a tiny clink, and Luma turned fast.
She walked to the shelf and touched the spoon. The curtain puffed again at the window. Luma stood still, then nodded. The clink, the tick, the creak, and the soft flame all sounded like the house talking in its own old way. She carried the lamp back to the middle of the room.
Luma curled up on the woven rug with the lamp beside her. The floor gave one last easy creak, as if it were settling down too. She smiled at the golden walls, the quiet clock, and the faint smell of lamp oil. She stayed right where she was, and the little house felt complete around her.