In the hushed stillness of the old house, the floorboard by the front door held its breath like an old man listening for footsteps long since gone. Worn smooth by generations of hurried boots and quiet slippers, it had learned to groan not in protest, but in memory. Each creak was a whisper of stories: a child sneaking out past bedtime, a soldier returning home on a rainy night, lovers tiptoeing toward forever. The other boards mocked its complaints, but it knew better—it wasn’t complaining. It was _remembering_. When the house fell silent and the wind pressed against the windows, the floorboard would sigh softly, as if aching for one more step, one more tale to carry.