Year: 1897

  His name was Keeree, a Thai man in his late twenties with a natural gift for restoring old wood.

  The Siamese government had sent him to Germany to study the art of European craftsmanship.

  But by fate—or perhaps a curse—he received an offer from a man named Heinrich Freudner, inviting him to help repair a wooden house perched atop a snowy hill.

  Keeree moved into the lower floor of the house.

  On the first night...

  the wooden planks creaked intermittently,

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  sounding like faint footsteps brushing across the floor.

  Keeree thought nothing of it—

  just the “living” sound of an old wooden home.

  But on the fourth night, he dreamed.

  He dreamed someone knocked on his bedroom door.

  Three times.

  In the dream, he got up, walked to the door, and opened it...

  No one was there.

  But left at the threshold

  was a small wooden box, no larger than his palm.

  When he opened it, he found only an old piece of white cloth

  and a single black feather.

  ...

  From that day on, Keeree began to hear whispers from the shadows of the house.

  Not in German. Not in Thai.

  But like a woman’s voice—

  softly crying beneath the wooden floorboards.

  When he asked Heinrich, the homeowner replied in a calm, even voice:

  “Every old house has its breath…

  Just don’t breathe louder than the one who came before you.”