I suppose this is the first story I am telling you about the House. Not the oldest one. Just the first.
There are nights when the House is quieter than usual.
That is how you know it has started.
Nobody says it is a tradition. Nobody says it is happening. Blankets appear on the floor, someone brings a lantern, someone steals tea, someone sits down in the middle of it all and starts talking as though the story had been waiting there long before any of us arrived.
The packs have their own stories, of course. About the wrong doors. About corridors that change if you walk them too late. About voices behind curtains, names on windowsills, and those who left but never really left.
The young ones listen too closely.
The old ones pretend they already know how every story ends.
Nobody believes it all.
Nobody doubts it either.
That is the rule of the Night of Stories.
You listen.
You don't interrupt.
And if the House is listening with you, you don't mention it.
There are nights when the House is quieter than usual.
That is how you know it has started.
Nobody says it is a tradition. Nobody says it is happening. Blankets appear on the floor, someone brings a lantern, someone steals tea, someone sits down in the middle of it all and starts talking as though the story had been waiting there long before any of us arrived.
The packs have their own stories, of course. About the wrong doors. About corridors that change if you walk them too late. About voices behind curtains, names on windowsills, and those who left but never really left.
The young ones listen too closely.
The old ones pretend they already know how every story ends.
Nobody believes it all.
Nobody doubts it either.
That is the rule of the Night of Stories.
You listen.
You don't interrupt.
And if the House is listening with you, you don't mention it.
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