Anima Inter Litteras

The Sound Between Walls

The teacups had long gone cold. Neither of us had noticed,at least not until the rims touched our lips and reminded us. We’d sat for some time, talking mostly about ordinary things. The poor condition of the winding path that led up the cliffs. The weather, always on the verge of mist. The way the ivy grew faster than one could trim it.

Bran leaned forward in the wooden chair across from me, his posture easy despite the slight stiffness in his joints. He was older than I’d first thought, lined in the face, with a beard that gave him the look of someone carved from the hillside. He watched the hearth, where the fire had dwindled to a red-orange glow.

“You’ve done well to open the place back up,” he said at last. “It’s sat too long with no voice in it.”

I tilted my head. “You’ve seen it often?”

He nodded slowly. “My cabin’s just past the ravine, where the trees knot together near the stone well. From there, you can see the upper tower on clear mornings. I’ve walked the boundary. Never crossed it, though.”

I poured another round of tea, weaker this time from reusing the leaves. “Why not?”

Bran looked at his hands before answering. “Felt wrong, somehow. The house... it’s not like other places. I’ve watched it for years, and I’ve always meant to come by when someone returned. But to enter it? No. Some doors aren’t yours to open.”

I smiled faintly at that. “You make it sound like a fairytale.”

His eyes met mine, mild but steady. “Some fairytales are warnings told too prettily.”

I didn’t answer right away. The second pour of tea was pale and almost bitter. Still, it warmed the hands. “Well, it’s a job now. Cataloguing, sorting, salvaging. They say there are books here that predate Liraeth’s founding. Some without authors.”

Bran gave a soft grunt that might’ve been amusement. “Then it’s a good thing you’ve got the patience for it.”

We sat for a while longer in that companionable stillness. There was something reassuring in his presence. Grounded, like stone. He didn’t fill the space with needless talk. Instead, we listened to the natural sounds of the house settling, the occasional sigh of wind against the glass, and the quiet breath of the fire.

Then, a sound. Not loud. Not jarring. But distinct.

A dull thump, somewhere to the north.

We both heard it, and both turned toward the sound at once.

Bran set his teacup down, gently, and rose from his seat with the ease of someone who’s spent a life doing so with care. “That wasn’t the wind.”

I fetched the lantern from its hook and lit it quickly. “Could be something fallen. I’ve only cleared part of the house.”

“Still,” he said, stepping toward the hallway, “best to check.”

We moved quietly. My footsteps were lighter, used to these halls by now. Bran followed with the gait of someone used to forests and uneven ground, every step deliberate.

The north wing had yet to be cleared of its dust-laden past. Tall windows stood clouded and grey with years of grime. Beneath them, sheet-covered furniture rested like ghosts too tired to stand. Books were stacked in small towers, waiting for my attention.

We followed the sound’s general direction, eventually reaching a wide room with high ceilings and shelves along the walls. A single overturned chair lay on the floor, the only sign that anything had changed.

I righted the chair and glanced around. “No damage,” I said. “Nothing’s broken.”

Bran walked slowly around the perimeter of the room. “Nothing came through outside either. I’d have seen it.”

We paused again in silence, as though waiting for the house to make another declaration.

Then, faintly, there was another sound. Further down the corridor this time.

We followed.

A faded curtain divided the corridor, velvet gone soft with age. I pulled it aside, revealing a narrower hallway that led to another chamber. The air shifted slightly here—not cold, not warm. Just... still.

This next room was circular, lined with drawers and flat cabinets. A herbarium, perhaps. Or a place for sketches and fieldwork. The air smelled faintly of paper and thyme.

Bran stepped beside a row of shallow drawers and ran his fingers over one. “This is older than the rest,” he murmured. “Craftsmanship’s finer. See the inlay?”

I looked. The wood bore a subtle geometric pattern, almost hidden beneath varnish and dust.

After a moment, I turned toward him. “Well. If it happens again, I suppose I’ll have company this time.”

He gave a small smile. “You will. Not much rattles me, but I’m curious now.”

We left the room side by side, the house giving no further sound as we returned to the main hall.

“No sign of what fell,” I said, half to myself.

Bran nodded slowly. “It stopped. Whatever it was.”

We stood in that quiet together, the only light from my lantern casting gold along the drawer handles.