THE STAIRCASE THAT LISTENED AT NIGHT
I am a spine of wood and iron, a silent witness to a family’s nightly ritual. They call me a staircase, but I am a listener, quietly observing the lives lived on my treads. The house falls quiet, the day's voices fading into a low hum, and that is when I come alive. Every footstep, every pause, every whispered word becomes a story that echoes upward. My day starts with the hurried thumps of a student rushing to school, a frantic scramble in a busy life. Then comes the steady tread of a father heading to work, the rhythmic pace of a man carrying the weight of his family. I feel the quiet, almost apologetic footsteps of a mother carrying a laundry basket, a silent symphony of love and service. I sense every step, a low rumble vibrating through my frame, and I know their stories by heart. But the night holds the most secrets. I hear the soft, barely noticeable footsteps of a child sneaking down for a glass of water, a little explorer in a world of shadows. The slow, heavy tread of...
