The house was built with thick walls to decide which sounds were worth keeping.

The walls softened as the child spoke.

The clocks in the house never agreed. One insisted the child was too young to know anything. Another declared her old enough to endure it. When she asked which time was correct, the clocks accused her of arguing.

Doors are quietly locked when she is being taught a lesson. The child then learned that screaming could open it. 

When the child asked for warmth, the house gave her records, still. When she asked for an explanation, the house repeated history.

There were rooms the child never mentioned, for the house preferred stories of old tales. A pretentious house generous to guests alone. 

At night, when the child returned, her body knew before her mind did. The floorboards recognized her weight and creaked accordingly.

Sometimes the house reached for her. The child stiffened, and the house took offense.

The house no longer struck her. It had learned to use words to its satisfaction. Then the house echoes care until you realize you repay with your soul. 

“You only want what I give!” the house croaked, after teaching her that nothing else would be offered.

The child used to believe that if she spoke clearly enough, the house would listen. That somewhere inside the walls was a room designed for understanding.

Eventually, she realized the truth: the house could hear perfectly. It simply didn’t want to hear her.

So she began to store her voice elsewhere.

She still lived there. 

But she no longer mistook the house for a home.