At the far edge of an old village, where the road ends and the fog begins, there’s a house no one dares to enter.
It isn’t abandoned — not completely. The windows are clean, the garden never overgrows, and every night, a faint light flickers behind the curtains, though no one has lived there in years.
The elders call it The House Where Time Sleeps.
They say the clocks inside still tick, but not in rhythm with the world. Some say if you listen long enough, you can hear whispers — echoes of voices that don’t belong to this side of time.
Children pass by quickly, clutching each other’s hands.
Travelers never notice it at all — as if their eyes simply skip that patch of road.
But one person does.
Someone who dreams of a ticking sound every night, and wakes up with dust on their hands — dust that smells faintly of lavender and rain.
And one evening, when the mist lay heavy over the fields, that person saw the door… open.
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The House Where Time Sleeps Comments