Sometimes I feel like I’ve lived before.
Not in a dramatic way—just little things. Like the way old buildings feel familiar to me. The way they smell. The creaks in the floor. The worn edges of wood. I walk into places like that and feel… at home. Like something in me remembers.
I like my house now, I do. But sometimes it bothers me how much it looks like everyone else’s. It doesn’t have that character. That weird little corner. That feeling that someone used to sit by the window every morning with a cup of coffee and a thousand thoughts.
Old houses feel alive. They hold stories. They breathe.
Modern ones feel like they’re waiting to be told who they are.
Sometimes I feel kind of alone in how I see things.
Not in a sad way—just quiet.
I notice things that don’t matter to most people.
Like the smell of dust and old paper. Or the way a door hangs slightly crooked.
That’s the stuff that sticks with me.
I think we all carry things we can’t explain.
Maybe it’s memory. Maybe it’s something older.
But if you’ve ever felt comfort in a creaky stair or an uneven floor,
you’re probably one of us too.
We’re the ones who hear the creaks.
And we remember.
