It was at the height of a recent storm that the thought first occurred to me. As the storm raged and the wind howled, I strained to hear the ominous rumble of the dreaded locomotive as the house creaked and groaned around me. At first, I thought it was in great distress, but no, it was as if the house were alive and fighting back, cursing and resisting the fury of the tempest. Oddly, I felt safe; I wasn’t alone. Soon after, I found myself soothing the house, praising its resilience and promising swift repairs for any damage sustained during the battle.

Later, the sky cleared, and the storm fled towards the sea. My home had prevailed, and as promised, its wounds, although minor, were promptly repaired.

Is my home alive? Could it possess a beating heart, or perhaps even a soul? I don’t know, but I’m quite certain I’ll think twice before I criticize it again. Since the great storm, the house has patiently accepted my touch, its walls now alive with vibrant colors and its lengthy hallways adorned with massive paintings, each cradled in a weighty wooden frame and anchored to the plaster with a formidable metal spike.

It continues to patiently put up with what it must surely see as my strange taste in decor, without complaint. Over the years, I’ve spoken to the house many times, yet it still refuses to respond. Perhaps it has little to say or is simply conserving its voice for the next severe storm that is sure to arrive.