When we first moved into our old Soviet-era house, I sensed something unusual, as if the walls held secrets. At night, soft knocks and scratching came from above. My husband blamed mice, but I felt it was more.

One evening, we ventured into the dusty attic. Flashlight in hand, I froze at the sight of hundreds of tiny pink shapes clinging to the beams. At first, I thought they were toys—but they moved. They were bats, mothers and babies, delicate and alive. Fear melted into wonder.

That night, I realized the house wasn’t just old bricks and beams—it was alive, carrying stories we hadn’t known. Over time, the squeaks became whispers, and one night, a large black bat with glowing red eyes seemed to share visions of war, love, loss, and forgiveness. I awoke on the attic floor, forever changed.

Now, the noises above no longer frighten me. They are reminders that every life carries a story, and even in darkness, there is light. Our old house isn’t just a home—it’s a keeper of memories, teaching me to see with my heart.