The House That Sighed Smoke — Past the pebble path that clicked under her boots, Orla followed a sigh. Read the full story →
Past the pebble path that clicked under her boots, Orla followed a sigh. It puffed from the crooked hill house every night, soft as a sleepy kettle, and she wanted to know who was making it before the moon climbed over the roof. Her walking stick tapped tap-tap beside the leaning fence, and damp grass brushed her hem with cold fingers.
Inside, the house smelled of cedar dust and rain. Orla checked the chimney, the attic trunk, even the teacups with chipped gold rims. Nothing. Then the sigh came again—hooosh—from the tiny bell above the front door, where nobody thought to look. “There you are,” she whispered. Curled inside the bell was a moon-moth, silver wings trembling, too shy to fly past the bats.
Orla opened the door wide and hummed until the bats made a dark, gentle arch. The moth fluttered through, leaving a ribbon of warm smoke behind it. Ever since, that house has sighed smoke from its chimney to tell lost moon-moths, “This way home.” Next time a winding path clicks under your eyes, can you find where the first soft hooosh began?
