When it finally popped out, it didn’t run. It sat on the balcony tile for a long minute, its throat pulsing as it caught its breath. We sat there together—two creatures who had been terrified of each other just moments before.
Strangely, after the adrenaline faded, a profound calm settled over me. I had started the morning thinking my home was “haunted” or “unsafe,” and I ended it realizing that my home was a sanctuary for more than just me.
Nana used to find all sorts of “critters” in her garden, and she never once reached for a broom to hit them. She’d reach for a magnifying glass or a bowl of water. She used to tell us, “Most things people call ‘monsters’ are just small things that got lost in a big world.”
She believed that fear was a choice we made when we didn’t have all the facts. She’d say, “If something is moving in the dark, don’t run for the light—bring the light to it.”
Nana had a theory about the “Heartbeat of the House.” She’d say, “A house that has lizards in the walls and birds in the eaves is a house that’s alive. Be worried when the walls stop moving—that’s when the soul has left the building.”
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