Speaker 1: Hello, and welcome back to Sleepy Stories. I'm your host, Lucy,
and my friends and I will be reading you a
sleepy bedtime story every week to relax you and to
help you to drift off into a RESTful sleep. From
time to time, we will also read you a relaxing,
peaceful meditation that will take you somewhere beautiful and calming.
Once we have read the stories, we will then read
them a second time, but this time they will be
read read even slower. This will help you to relax
even more. Before we begin, I would like you to
close your eyes and breathe in and out nice and deeply.
Take a few seconds to inhale, and then.
Speaker 2: Hold your breath for a few.
Speaker 1: Seconds more, and then release and breathe out. Do this
a few times if you need to. While you listen
to the music and you listen to my voice, give
yourself time to let your body relax and your mind settle.
It's important that we allow time for us to feel safe, cozy,
and completely at ease. And now it's time for this
week's story.
Speaker 2: The House that moved Every Tuesday. At precisely four minutes
past midnight every Tuesday, the house disappeared not exploded, not crumbled,
not folded politely away like camping furniture. It simply vanished
from wherever it had been the week before and appeared
somewhere entirely new. One Tuesday, it stood beside the sea,
the next in the middle of a sunflower field. Once,
rather inconveniently, it appeared in the center of a tiny
village market and caused three wheelbarrows, a magician, and an
extremely emotional goat to faint simultaneously. Nobody knew why the
house moved, nobody knew how, and nobody, under any circumstances
was allowed to enter the attic. This final rule was
repeated often by the house's owner, a tall, sharp eyed
woman named Beatrice Vale, who wore dark green coats and
had the unsettling habit of appearing silently behind people when
they lied. You may explore the library, she would say.
You may explain or the observatory. You may even explore
the pantry if you survive the marmalade shelf, but never
the attic. Naturally, this made the attic the most interesting
thing in the world. Now Living in the moving house
was thirteen year old Juniper Read. Juniper had arrived six
months earlier, carrying a suitcase, a violin case, and absolutely
no intention of staying. She preferred certainty, predictable roads, predictable weather,
predictable breakfasts. The moving house offered none of these things.
The staircase changed direction occasionally, the kettle whistled different songs
depending on the temperature, and every Tuesday morning, Juniper woke
up somewhere in possible. This, she declared one rainy morning,
while staring out at a desert full of purple sand.
Is not normal, Beatrice sip tea calmly. Normal is often overrated.
We were beside a lighthouse yesterday, and today we are not.
That is the problem, Beatrice smiled into her cup. Outside,
enormous birds drifted over the dunes like living kites. Juniper groaned.
Even the wildlife refused to behave sensibly. The moving house
itself was enormous, larger inside than outside. Naturally, its hallways
curved strangely. Some doors opened into entirely different seasons. The
library contained books, books that occasionally rewrote themselves overnight, depending
on who had read them. There was also a cat
named Archbishop. Archbishop was white, enormous, and deeply judgmental. Juniper
disliked him immediately. Archbishop disliked everyone immediately. This created balance.
On Wednesday afternoon, Juniper discovered the house had moved again,
not across the world, this time just slightly. She entered
the kitchen and noticed the window now overlooked snowy mountains
instead of purple dunes. Beatrice, Yes, the house shifted. Oh good,
said Beatrice. From somewhere upstairs. It was leaning emotionally. Juniper
pressed her forehead against the glass. I don't understand how
you live like this, Beatrice appeared, carrying a stack of maps.
You assume houses should stay still? Yes, why? Juniper opened
her mouth, then paused. Nobody had ever asked her that before.
Because they're houses, mm, said Beatrice thoughtfully. And clouds are clouds,
yet they travel constantly. Houses aren't clouds. Most houses aren't,
Beatrice agreed, which was not remotely helpful. That evening, Juniper
wandered the halls restlessly. The moving house always became quieter
after sunset. The floorboards creaked softly like sleepy old bones.
Lamps glowed amber along the corridors. Somewhere far away, pipes
hummed mysterious tunes. Juniper passed the attic staircase. She stopped
at the top, sat the attic door, black dusty, locked
with three silver bolts. A sign hung from the handle.
Absolutely not. Juniper stared upward. Archbishop sat halfway up the stairs,
grooming himself. You know, she whispered, That sign makes me
want to open it more. Archbishop blinked slowly, which felt encouraging.
Juniper climbed three steps. The house groaned, she froze, The
floorboards shifted beneath her feet. Then from somewhere deep inside
the walls came a low sound, not angry, not threatening. Warning.
Juniper backed away slowly. Archbishop yawned smugly. Oh, don't look
so pleased with yourself, she muttered. The cat looked delighted anyway.
The next Tuesday, Juniper awoke to gulls screaming outside her
bedroom window. She opened the curtains. The house stood balanced
atop enormous cliffs, overlooking a roaring green sea. Far below,
waves crashed against black rocks, and in the distance, floating
above the ocean hung a city made an entirely of glass.
Juniper rubbed her eyes. No, the city remained there. Transparent
towers shimmered in the sunlight bridges curved through the clouds,
Airships drifted lazily between crystal spires. Beatrice knocked lightly on
the door. Breakfast. There's a floating city outside, Yes, said Beatrice,
try the jam before it hardens. At breakfast, Juniper could
barely sit still. What is that place, mirror glass? You
say that like its ordinary? It's moderately ordinary. Can we
go there? Beatrice buttered toast carefully. Possibly. Juniper narrowed her
eyes suspiciously. What's the catch? There is no catch? That
means there's definitely a catch, Beatrice smiled slightly. The city
only allows visitors carrying something lost. Juniper frowned. That's strange
all worthwhile? Places are They traveled to the floating city
that afternoon, a board a rattling cable lift suspended over
the sea. Juniper tried not to look down, failed, looked down,
regretted it instantly. The city of mirror Glass was breath
taking everything, reflected everything else. Glass streets, beneath glass towers,
beneath glass bridges, suspended over open sky. Even the people
wore shimmering coats threaded with silver. At the city gates
stood two guards holding crystal lanterns, halt, said one purpose.
A visit asked the other. Tea and mild curiosity, said Beatrice.
The guards nodded thoughtfully acceptable, Juniper blinked. That worked, confidence,
whispered Beatrice. Most rules surrender to confidence. Inside the city,
strange things happened constantly. A violinist played music that turned
into birds. A shop sold bottled echoes, children chased glowing
paper fish through the streets, and everywhere Juniper looked, she
saw reflections, not always accurate ones. Sometimes mirrors showed people
older or younger, or smiling when they weren't. This place
is unsettling, Junipa whispered. That's because it shows truth sideways,
said Beatrice, which sounded deeply suspicious. As sunset painted the
glass tower's gold, Beatrice stopped beside a narrow alley. At
its end stood a tiny, crooked shop. Its sign read
lost Things returned, no receipts. Inside sat an old man
polishing spectacles. He looked up as they entered, Ah, he said,
the moving house. Beatrice inclined her head politely. The old
man peered at Juniper, and what have you lost? Nothing?
The old man laughed softly. Everyone loses something Juniper folded
her arms. I haven't, But even as she said it,
something twisted painfully inside her chest. The old man seemed
to notice, hm, he murmured without another word. He climbed
a ladder, disappearing high into the shop's shadows. Moments later
he returned, carrying a small wooden box for you, he said,
Juniper hesitated, what is it? Open? It inside lay a compass,
old brass, scratched glass. Its needle spun wildly first, then
slowly settled, not north, toward Juniper herself. She frowned. It's broken, No,
said the old man gently, it's honest. Juniper stared at
the compass. Something about it made her suddenly uneasy. What
does it do? It points toward what's missing? The shop
fell silent. Outside, Distant bells rang across the city. Juniper swallowed,
I don't understand. You will. Beatrice thanked the old man quietly,
and together they left the shop. The journey home felt
different somehow. Juniper kept glancing at the compass. The needle
still pointed stuff toward her chest. That night, the house
was restless. The walls creaked, doors clicked softly open and shut.
Juniper lay awake, listening. Then she heard it footsteps above
her ceiling in the attic, Slow, careful walking, Juniper sat
bolt upright. The footsteps stopped. Then came a faint sound,
like music, winding backward. Curiosity burned inside her. Before common
sense could intervene, she grabbed the compass and crept upstairs.
The attic staircase seemed longer at night. Archbishop watched silently
from below. Juniper reached the black back attic door. The
silver bolts were gone. Slowly, the door creaked open. Dust
swirled in the darkness. Beyond, and inside the attic was
the sky. Juniper froze. The attic was impossibly vast. Stars
stretched endlessly overhead, Clouds drifted through enormous wooden beams. Lanterns
floated gently in the darkness, and in the center of
the attic stood hundreds of doors, thousands, perhaps different colours,
different sizes, some ancient, some knew, some glowing faintly. Juniper
stepped inside carefully. What is this place? The heart of
the house. Beatrice stood beside one of the lanterns, hands
folded behind her back. Juniper jumped. You nearly killed me.
I've been told I arrived dramatically. Juniper looked around in wonder.
The attic is alive. In a manner of speaking, the
compass trembled in Juniper's hand. Its needle pointed toward a
small blue door near the far wall. Beatrice noticed. Ah,
she said, quietly, so that's what you lost. Juniper approached
the door slowly. It looked ordinary, simple brass, handle, faded paint,
nothing frightening about it. And yet her chest heightened painfully.
What's behind it? Beatrice's expression softened. Only you can know that.
Juniper placed her hand on the handle. The moment she
touched it, the door swung inward. Warm sunlight spilled through.
She stepped inside and found herself standing in her old home,
not exactly a memory of it. The kitchen smelled of
soup and raincoats drying by the fire. Music drifted softly
from another room. Her father sat by the window, laughing
as he repaired her violin string. Juniper's breath caught. He
looked up and smiled. Not truly there, not alive again.
Just remember perfectly you stopped playing, he said gently. Juniper
felt tears sting her eyes. After he'd died the year before,
she had packed away the violin completely. She hadn't touched it,
since it hurt too much. I couldn't, she whispered. Her
father nodded kindly, as though he already understood. You thought
stopping would hurt less. Juniper wiped her eyes angrily. Outside
the memory window, snow fell softly. I didn't want to
forget you. You won't. The room began fading gently around her.
Her father smiled one last time. Some things move, he said,
that doesn't mean they disappear. Then the memory redissolved into light.
Junipus stood once more in the attic beneath the endless stars.
Silent tears slid down her cheeks. Beatrice said nothing for
a while. Finally, she asked, softly, do you understand now
why the house moves? Juniper looked around the vast attic
of doors. It carries people in a way. Beatrice touched
one floating lantern lightly. The house finds those who are stuck,
those who stop living because they're frightened of losing more.
Junipus stared at the compass in her hands. The needle
had finally gone Still, what happens now, Beatrice smiled faintly.
Now the house waits to see whether you're ready to
keep climbing forward. Far below, Somewhere deep within the moving house,
a clock chimed midnight, The walls shivered gently. Tuesday had begun.
Outside the attic windows, the stars shifted. The entire house
moved once more through the sleeping world. But this time
Juniper didn't feel afraid, only curious and perhaps just perhaps
a little hopeful too. The next morning, sunlight streamed through
the dining room windows. Beyond them stretched rolling green hills
filled with wildflowers. Juniper entered, carrying something under her arm,
her violin. Beatrice glanced up from breakfast. Oh, Juniper shrugged awkwardly.
I thought the house might like music. At once, the
floorboards hummed happily. Somewhere upstairs, a door applauded, archbishops sneezed,
Beatrice smiled into her tea, and, for the very first
time since arriving at the impossible Wandering House, Juniper smiled too. Outside,
the world rolled endlessly onward beneath the traveling House, and
at precisely four minutes past midnight every Tuesday, somewhere between mountains, oceans, forests,
and forgotten places, the house continued moving gently through the world,
always searching for those who still needed help finding their
way forward. The end the house that moved every Tuesday,
at precisely four minutes past midnight. Every Tuesday, the house disappeared,
not exploded, not crumbled, not folded politely away like camping furniture.
It simply vanished from wherever it had been the week
before and appeared somewhere entirely new. One Tuesday, it stood
beside the sea, the next in the middle of a
sunflower field. Once, rather inconveniently, it appeared in the center
of a tiny village market and caused three wheelbarrows, a magician,
and an extremely emotional goat to faint simultaneously. Nobody knew
why the house moved, nobody knew how, and nobody, under
any circumstances was allowed to enter the attic. This final
rule was repeated often by the house's owner, a tall,
sharp eyed woman named Beatrice Vale, who wore dark green
coats and had the unsettling habit of appearing silently behind
people when they lied. You may explore the library, she
would say. You may explore the observatory. You may even
explore the pantry. If you survived the marmalade shelf, but
never the attic. Naturally, this made the attic the most
interesting thing in the world. Now living in the moving
house was thirteen year old Juniper read. Juniper had arrived
six months earlier carrying a suitcase, a violin case, an
absolutely no intention of staying. She preferred certainty, predictable roads,
predictable weather, predictable breakfasts. The moving house offered none of
these things. The staircase changed direction occasionally, the kettle whistled
different songs depending on the temperature, and every Tuesday morning
Juniper woke up somewhere impossible. This, she declared one rainy morning,
while staring out at a desert full of purple sand,
is not normal, Beatrice sip tea calmly. Normal is often overrated.
We were beside a lighthouse yesterday, and today we are not.
That is the problem, Viatrists smiled into her cup. Outside,
enormous birds drifted over the dunes like living kites. Juniper groaned.
Even the wildlife refused to behave Sensibly, the moving house
itself was enormous, larger inside than outside. Naturally, its hallways
curved strangely. Some doors opened into entirely different seasons. The
library contained books that occasionally rewrote themselves overnight, depending on
who had read them. There was also a cat named Archbishop.
Archbishop was white, enormous, and deeply judgmental. Juniper disliked him immediately.
Archbishop disliked everyone immediately. This created balance. On Wednesday afternoon,
Juniper discovered the house had moved again, not across the world,
this time just slightly. She entered the kitchen and noticed
the window now overlooked snowy mountains instead of purple dunes. Beatrice, Yes,
the house shifted. Oh good, said Beatrice from somewhere upstairs.
It was leaning emotionally. Juniper pressed her forehead against the glass.
I don't understand how you live like this, Beatrice appeared,
carrying a stack of maps. You assume houses should stay still? Yes? Why?
Juniper opened her mouth, then paused. Nobody had ever asked
her that before. Because they're houses, mmm, said Beatrice thoughtfully.
And clouds are clouds, yet they travel constantly. Houses aren't clouds.
Most houses aren't, Beatrice agreed, which was not remotely helpful.
That evening, Juniper wandered the halls restlessly. The moving house
always became quieter after sunset. The floorboards creaked softly, like
sleepy old bones. Lamps glowed amber along the corridors. Somewhere
far away, pipes hummed mysterious tunes. Juniper passed the attic staircase.
She stopped at the top. Sat the attic door, black dusty,
locked with three silver bolts. A sign hung from the handle.
Absolutely not. Juniper stared upward. Archbishop sat halfway up the stairs,
grooming himself. You know, she whispered. That sign makes me
want to open it more. Archbishop blinked slowly, which felt encouraging.
Juniper climbed three steps. The house groaned, she froze, The
floorboards shifted beneath her feet. Then, from somewhere deep inside
the walls, came a low sound, not angry, not threatening. Warning.
Juniper backed away slowly. Archbishop yawned smugly. Oh, don't look
so pleased with yourself, she muttered. The cat looked delighted anyway.
The next Tuesday, Juniper awoke to gulls screaming outside her
bedroom window. She opened the curtains. The house stood balanced
atop enormous cliffs, overlooking a roaring green sea. Far below,
waves crashed against black rocks and in the distance. Floating
above the ocean hung a city made entirely of glass.
Juniper rubbed her eyes. No, the city remained there. Transparent
towers shimmered in the sunlight. Bridges curved through the clouds,
Airships drifted lazily between crystal spires. Beatrice knocked lightly on
the door. Breakfasts. There's a floating city outside, yes, said Beatrice,
Try the jam before it hardens. At breakfast, Juniper could
barely sit still. What is that place, mirror glass? You
say that like it's ordinary. It's moderately ordinary. Can we
go there? Beatrice buttered toast carefully. Possibly. Juniper narrowed her
eyes suspiciously. What's the catch? There is no catch. That
means there's definitely a catch, Beatrice smiled slightly. The city
only allows visitors carrying something lost. Juniper frowned. That's strange
all worthwhile? Places are they? To the floating city? That afternoon,
aboard a rattling cable lift suspended over the sea, Juniper
tried not to look down. Failed, looked down, regretted it instantly.
The city of mirror glass was breath taking, everything reflected
everything else, glass streets beneath glass towers, beneath glass bridges
suspended over open sky. Even the people wore shimmering coats
threaded with silver. At the city gates stood two guards
holding crystal lanterns. Halt, said one purpose a visit asked
the other. Tea and mild curiosity, said Beatrice. The guards
nodded thoughtfully acceptable, Juniper blinked. That worked, confidence, whispered Beatrice.
Most rules surrender to confidence. Inside the city, strange things
happened constantly. A violinist played music that turned into birds.
A shop sold bottled echoes, children chased glowing paper fish
through the streets, and everywhere Juniper looked, she saw reflections,
not always accurate ones. Sometimes mirrors showed people older or younger,
or smiling when they weren't. This place is unsettling, Juniper whispered.
That's because it shows truth sideways, said Beatrice, which sounded
deeply suspicious. A As sunset painted the glass tower's gold,
Beatrice stopped beside a narrow alley. At its end stood
a tiny, crooked shop. Its sign read lost Things returned,
no receipts. Inside sat an old man polishing spectacles. He
looked up as they entered Ah, he said, the moving house.
Beatrice inclined her head politely. The old man peered at Juniper,
and what have you lost? Nothing? The old man laughed softly.
Everyone loses something. Juniper folded her arms. I haven't. But
even as she said it, something twisted painfully inside her chest.
The old man seemed to notice. Yes, hm, he murmured
without another word. He climbed a ladder, disappearing high into
the shop's shadows. Moments later he returned, carrying a small
wooden box for you, he said, Juniper hesitated, what is it? Open?
Speaker 3: It?
Speaker 2: Inside lay a compass, old brass, scratched glass. Its needle
spun wildly at first, then slowly settled, not north, toward
Juniper herself. She frowned. It's broken, No, said the old
man gently, it's honest. Juniper stared at the compass. Something
about it made her suddenly uneasy. What does it do?
It points toward what's missing? The shop fell silent outside,
Distant bells rang across the city. Juniper swallowed. I don't understand.
You will. Beatrice thanked the old man quietly, and together
they left the shop. The journey home felt different somehow.
Juniper kept glancing at the compass the needle still pointed
stubbornly toward her chest. That night, the house was restless.
The walls creaked, doors clicked softly open and shut. Juniper
lay awake, listening. Then she heard it, footsteps above her
ceiling in the attic, slow, careful walking. Juniper sat bolt upright.
The footsteps stopped. Then came a faint sound, like music
winding backward. Curiosity burned inside her. Before common sense could intervene,
she grabbed the compass and crept upstairs. The attic staircase
seemed longer at night. Archbishop watched silently from below. Juniper
reached the black attic door. The silver bolts were gone. Slowly,
the door creaked open. Dust swirled in the darkness. Beyond
and inside the attic was the sky. Juniper froze. The
attic was impossibly vast. Stars stretched endlessly overhead, Clouds drifted
through enormous wooden beams. Lanterns floated gently in the darkness.
And in the center of the attic stood hundreds of doors, thousands,
perhaps different colors, different sizes, some ancient, some knew, some
glowing faintly. Junipu stepped inside carefully. What is this place?
The heart of the house. Beatrice stood beside one of
the lanterns, hands folded behind her back. Juniper jumped, you
nearly killed me. I've been told I arrived dramatically. Juniper
looked around in wonder. The attic is alive in a
manner of space speaking, The compass trembled in Juniper's hand.
Its needle pointed toward a small blue door near the
far wall. Beatrice noticed. Ah, She said, quietly, so that's
what you lost. Juniper approached the door slowly. It looked ordinary,
simple brass, handle, faded paint, nothing frightening about it, and
yet her chest tightened painfully. What's behind it? Beatrice's expression softened.
Only you can know that. Juniper placed her hand on
the handle. The moment she touched it, the door swung inward.
Warm sunlight spilled through. She stepped inside and found herself
standing in her old home, not exactly a memory of it.
The kitchen smelled of soup and raincoats drying by the fire.
Music drifted softly from another room. Her father sat by
the window, laughing as he repaired her violin string. Juniper's
breath caught. He looked up and smiled, not truly there,
not alive again, just remembered perfectly. You stopped playing, he
said gently. Juniper felt tears sting her eyes. After he'd
died the year before, she had packed away the violin completely.
She hadn't touched it since it hurt too much. I couldn't,
she whispered. Her father nodded kindly, as though he already understood.
You thought stopping would hurt less. Juniper wiped her eyes angrily.
Outside the memory window, snow fell softly. I didn't want
to forget you. You won't. The room began fading gently
around her. Her father smiled one last time. Some things move,
he said, that doesn't mean they disappear. Then the memory
dissolved into light. Juniper stood once more in the attic,
beneath the endless stars. Silent tears slid down her cheeks.
Beatrice said nothing for a while. Finally, she asked, softly,
do you understand now why the house moves? Juniper looked
around the vast attic of doors. It carries people in
a way. Beatrice touched one floating lantern lightly. The house
finds those who are stuck, those who stop living because
they're frightened of losing more, Junipus stared at the compass
in her hands. The needle had finally gone Still, what
happens now, Beatrice smiled faintly. Now the house waits to
see whether you're ready to keep climbing forward. Far below,
somewhere deep within the moving house, a clock chimed. Midnight,
the walls shivered gently. Tuesday had begun. Outside the attic windows,
the stars shifted. The entire house moved once more through
the sleeping world. But this time Juniper didn't feel afraid,
only curious, and perhaps just perhaps a little hopeful too.
The next morning, sunlight streamed through the dining room windows.
Beyond them stretched rolling green hills filled with wild flowers.
Juniper entered, carrying something under her arm, her violin. Beatrice
glanced up from breakfast. Oh, Juniper shrugged awkwardly. I thought
the house might like music at once. The floorboards hummed happily.
Somewhere upstairs, a door applauded, Archbishop sneezed. Beatrice smiled into
her tea, and for the very first time since arriving
at the impossible wandering House, Juniper smiled too. Outside the
world rolled endlessly onward beneath the traveling house, and at
precisely four minutes past midnight every Tuesday, somewhere between mountains, oceans, forests,
and forgotten places. The house continued moving gently through the world,
always searching for those who still needed help finding their
way forward. The end the house that moved every Tuesday.
At precisely four minutes past midnight every Tuesday, the house disappeared.
Not exploded, not crumbled, not folded politely away like camping furniture.
It simply vanished from wherever it had been the week
before and appeared somewhere entirely new. One Tuesday, it stood
beside the sea, the next in the middle of a
sunflower field. Once, rather inconveniently, it appeared in the center
of a tiny village market and caused three wheelbarrows, a magician,
and an extremely emotional goat to faint simultaneously. Nobody knew
why the house moved, nobody knew how, and nobody, under
any circumstances was allowed to enter the attic. This final
rule was repeated often by the house's owner, a tall,
sharp eyed woman named Beatrice Vale, who wore dark green
coats and had the unsettling habit of appearing silently behind
people when they lied. You may explore the library, she
would say. You may explore the observatory. You may even
explore the pantry if you survive the marmalade shelf, but
never the attic. Naturally, this made the attic the most
interesting thing in the world. Now, living in the moving
house was thirteen year old Juniper Read. Juniper had arrived
six months earlier carrying a suitcase, a violin case, and
absolutely no intention of staying. She preferred certainty, predictable roads,
predictable weather, predictable breakfasts. The moving house offered none of
these things. The staircase changed direction occasionally, the kettle whistled
different songs depending on the temperature, and every Tuesday morning,
Juniper woke up somewhere impossible. This, she declared one rainy morning,
while staring out at a desert full of purple sand.
Is not normal, Beatrice sip tea calmly. Normal is often overrated.
We were beside a lighthouse yesterday, and today we are not.
That is the problem, Beatrice smiled into her cup. Outside,
enormous birds drifted over the dunes like living kites, Juniper groaned.
Even the wildlife refused to behave sensibly. The moving house
itself was enormous, larger inside than outside. Naturally, it's hallways
curved strangely. Some doors opened into entirely different seasons. The
library contained books that occasionally rewrote themselves overnight, depending on
who had read them. There was also a cat named Archbishop.
Archbishop was white, enormous, and deeply judgmental. Juniper disliked him immediately.
Archbishop disliked everyone immediately. This created balance. On Wednesday afternoon,
Juniper discovered the house had moved again, not across the world,
this time just slightly. She entered the kitchen and noticed
the window now overlooked snowy mountains instead of purple dunes. Beatrice, Yes,
the house, Oh good, said Beatrice from somewhere upstairs. It
was leaning emotionally. Juniper pressed her forehead against the glass.
I don't understand how you live like this. Beatrice appeared,
carrying a stack of maps. You assume houses should stay still? Yes? Why?
Juniper opened her mouth, then paused. Nobody had ever asked
her that before. Because they're houses, mm, said Beatrice thoughtfully.
And clouds are clouds, yet they travel constantly. Houses aren't clouds.
Most houses aren't Beatrice agreed, which was not remotely helpful.
That evening, Juniper wandered the hall restlessly. The moving house
always became quieter after sunset. The floorboards creaked softly, like
sleepy old bones. Lamps glowed amber along the corridors. Somewhere
far away, pipes hummed mysterious tunes. Juniper passed the attic staircase.
She stopped at the top. Sat the attic door, black dusty,
locked with three silver bolts. A sign hung from the handle.
Absolutely not, Juniper stared upward. Archbishop sat halfway up the stairs,
grooming himself. You know, she whispered. That sign makes me
want to open it more. Archbishop blinked slowly, which felt encouraging.
Juniper climbed three steps. The house groaned, she froze, The
floorboards shifted beneath her feet. Then, from somewhere deep inside
the walls came a low sound, not angry, not threatening. Warning.
Juniper backed away slowly. Archbishop yawned smugly. Oh, don't look
so pleased with yourself, she muttered. The cat looked delighted anyway.
The next Tuesday, Juniper awoke to gulls screaming outside her
bedroom window. She opened the curtains. The house stood balanced
atop enormous cliffs, overlooking a roaring green sea. Far below,
way leaves crashed against black rocks, and in the distance,
floating above the ocean hung a city made entirely of glass.
Juniper rubbed her eyes. No, the city remained there. Transparent
towers shimmered in the sunlight. Bridges curved through the clouds,
Airships drifted lazily between crystal spires. Beatrice knocked lightly on
the door. Breakfast. There's a floating city outside, Yes, said Beatrice,
Try the jam before it hardens. At breakfast, Juniper could
barely sit still. What is that place, mirror glass? You
say that like its ordinary? It's moderately ordinary. Can we
go there? Beatrice buttered toast carefully. Possibly, Juniper narrowed her
eyes suspiciously. What's the catch? There is no catch. That
means there's definitely a catch, Beatrice smiled slightly. The city
only allows visitors carrying something lost. Juniper frowned. That's strange,
all worthwhile? Places are They traveled to the floating city
that afternoon, aboard a rattling cable lift suspended over the sea.
Juniper tried not to look down, failed, looked down, regretted
it instantly. The city of mirror glass was breath taking
everything reflected everything else. Glass streets, beneath glass towers, beneath
glass bridges, suspended over open sky. Even the people wore
shimmering coats threaded with silver. At the city gates stood
two guards holding crystal lanterns. Halt, said one purpose a
visit asked the other. Tea and mild, curiosity, said Beatrice.
The guards nodded, thoughtfully acceptable, Juniper blinked. That worked, confidence,
whispered Beatrice. Most rules surrender to confidence. Inside the city,
strange things happened constantly. A violinist played music that turned
into birds. A shop sold bottled echoes, children chased glo
lowing paper fish through the streets, and everywhere Juniper looked,
she saw reflections, not always accurate ones. Sometimes mirrors showed
people older or younger, or smiling when they weren't. This
place is unsettling, Junipa whispered. That's because it shows truth sideways,
said Beatrice, which sounded deeply suspicious. As sunset painted the
glass tower's gold, Beatrice stopped beside a narrow alley at
its end stood a tiny crooked shop. Its sign read
lost things returned, no receipts. Inside sat an old man
polishing spectacles. He looked up as they entered. Ah, he said,
the moving house. Beatrice inclined her head politely. The old
man peered at Juniper, and what have you lost? Nothing?
The old man laughed softly. Everyone loses something. Juniper folded
her arms. I haven't. But even as she said it,
something twisted painfully inside her chest. The old man seemed
to notice. Hm. He murmured without another word. He climbed
a ladder, disappearing high into the shop's shadows. Moments later
he returned, carrying a small wooden box for you, he said,
Juniper hesitated, what is it? Open it? In sight lay
a compass, old brass, scratched glass. Its needle spun wildly
at first, then slowly settled, not north, toward Juniper herself.
She frowned. It's broken, No, said the old man gently,
it's honest. Juniper stared at the compass. Something about it
made her suddenly uneasy. What does it do? It points
toward what's missing? The shop fell silent outside. Distant bells
rang across the city, Juniper swallowed, I don't understand, you will.
Beatrice thanked the old man quietly, and together they left
the shop. The journey high felt different somehow. Juniper kept
glancing at the compass. The needle still pointed stubbornly toward
her chest. That night, the house was restless. The walls creaked,
doors clicked softly open and shut. Juniper lay awake, listening.
Then she heard it. Footsteps above her ceiling in the attic, slow,
careful walking. Juniper sat bolt upright. The footsteps stopped, Then
came a faint sound, like music, winding backward. Curiosity burned
inside her. Before common sense could intervene, she grabbed the
compass and crept upstairs. The attic stair case seemed longer
at night. Archbishop watched silently from below. Juniper reached the
black attic door. The silver bolts were gone slowly. The
door creaked open, dust swirled in the darkness. Beyond, and
inside the attic was the sky. Juniper froze. The attic
was impossibly vast. Stars stretched endlessly overhead, Clouds drifted through
enormous wooden beams. Lanterns floated gently in the darkness, and
in the center of the attic stood hundreds of doors, thousands, perhaps,
different colours, different sizes, some ancient knew, some glowing faintly.
Juniper stepped inside carefully. What is this place? The heart
of the house. Beatrice stood beside one of the lanterns,
hands folded behind her back. Juniper jumped, You nearly killed me.
I've been told I arrived dramatically. Juniper looked around in wonder.
The attic is alive. In a manner of speaking, the
compass trembled in Juniper's hand. Its needle pointed toward a
small blue door near the far wall. Beatrice noticed, Ah,
She said, quietly, so that's what you lost. Juniper approached
the door slowly. It looked ordinary, simple brass, handle, faded paint,
nothing frightening about it, And yet her chest tightened painfully.
What's behind it? Beatrice's expression softened. Only you can know that.
Juniper placed her hand on the handle. The moment she
touched it, the door swung inward. Warm sunlight spilled through.
She stepped inside and found herself standing in her old home,
not exactly a memory of it. The kitchen smelled of
soup and raincoats drying by the fire. Music drifted softly
from another room. Her father sat by the window, laughing
as he repaired her violin string. Juniper's breath caught. He
looked up and smiled. Not truly there, not alive again,
just remembered perfectly. You stopped playing, he said gently. Juniper
felt tears sting her eyes. After he'd died the year before,
she had packed away the violin completely. She hadn't touched
it since it hurt too much. I couldn't, she whispered.
Her father nodded kindly, as though he already understood. You
thought stopping would hurt less. Juniper wiped her eyes angrily.
Outside the memory window, snow fell softly. I didn't want
to forget you. You won't. The room began fading gently
around her. Her father smiled one laugh. Us time some
things move, he said, that doesn't mean they disappear. Then
the memory dissolved into light. Junipus stood once more in
the attic, beneath the endless stars. Silent tears slid down
her cheeks. Beatrice said nothing for a while. Finally, she asked, softly,
do you understand now why the house moves? Juniper looked
around the vast attic of doors. It carries people in
a way. Beatrice touched one floating lantern lightly. The house
finds those who are stuck, those who stop living because
they're frightened of losing more. Junipus stared at the compass
in her hands. The needle had finally gone Still. What
happens now, Beatrice smiled faintly. Now the house waits to
see whether you're ready to keep climbing forward. Far below,
somewhere deep within the moving house, a clock chimed. Midnight.
The walls shivered gently. Tuesday had begun. Outside the attic windows,
the stars shifted. The entire house moved once more through
the sleeping world. But this time Juniper didn't feel afraid,
only curious, and perhaps just perhaps a little hopeful too.
The next morning, sunlight streamed through the dining room windows.
Beyond them stretched rolling green hills filled with wildflowers. Juniper entered,
carrying something under her arm, her violin. Beatrice glanced up
from breakfast. Oh, Juniper shrugged awkwardly. I thought the house
might like music at once. The floorboards hummed happily. Somewhere upstairs,
a door applauded. Archbishop sneezed. Beatrice smiled into her tea,
and for the very first time since arriving at the
impossible Wandering House, Juniper smiled too. Outside the world rolled
endlessly onward beneath the Traveling House, and at precisely four
minutes past midnight every Tuesday, somewhere between mountains, oceans, forests,
and forgotten places, the House continued moving gently through the world,
always searching for those who still needed help finding their
way forward. The end.
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