The house surrounded by colors

The house was at the end of the village.

People used to say, "It seems to live on its own." Day after day, night after night, someone painted on the walls of that abandoned house—living pictures, just like the deepest dreams of the human heart!

Some would say, the wind paints. Some would say, an invisible painter lives in that house. I didn't know what the truth was—but one incident changed my life.

When my mother died, I was sixteen. The world was empty to me, a choking emptiness. One day I walked to that colorful house. There was a picture of a woman painted on the wall—a sunflower in her hand, water like a river in her eyes.

I was stunned.

That was my mother.

The next day I went again. This time I saw a picture of a little boy—a paper boat in his hand, fear in his eyes. It was as if that was me.

The third day, there was an old house painted on the wall. It was as if it were telling the story of this house—there was a time when its windows were filled with light, when laughter could be heard echoing in its rooms.

On the fourth day, the door was open. No breeze. Not even the sound of footsteps.

I quietly entered.

A canvas was placed inside the house. Empty, but when I touched it, it felt like it was trembling, breathing.

I took a brush in my hand. As if my hand began to move by itself. I painted an unknown forest—tall, silvery trees, light shining at their tips.

I felt like this house remembered me. Or was dreaming.

On the fifth day, when I went there, I saw on the wall—that same forest was painted, but a path had been created in it. A path that did not lead to where, only calling forward into the unknown.

On the sixth day, the path to the forest became clearer on the wall, at the end of the path was a lighted window. It was as if someone was looking out of the window.

An ancient Japanese belief says that objects can feel. If someone cries while sitting on a chair, that chair remembers it. A pillow knows how deeply someone has dreamed. So can't a house dream? Can an old wall know how you cry?

On the seventh day, that happened.

A girl came out of the house. Her hair was shining in the darkness, her voice was like the evening. I stood there, speechless.

She said, "I was looking for you.

"Her eyes were as deep as the ocean, as if they had many stories hidden inside them. I asked, "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"I am like this house," she smiled, "a little abandoned, but full of dreams."

She taught me how to paint dreams. How to turn imagination into color. She said, "This house is slowly dying. It must be saved."

Every day we painted the walls together. My sorrow, my dreams, the words of my lost mother—all were transformed into color. The girl's name was Maya. Sometimes she would say, "Everything is illusion, but dreams are reality."

Then, just as she came, one day she left.

But the pictures on the wall didn't stop.

The house itself seemed to want to tell me—there is no end to dreams here. Sometimes I wondered, is Maya the soul of the house? Is this place an illusion?

Years passed. I went to the city, life went on.

But one day I came back.

The house was silent. Empty.

There was a new picture on the wall.

A young man, holding it in his hand.

Behind him—a shadowy girl stood, just like a memory made in the rays of the sun.

That was me, and behind me—Maya.

The house wanted to tell me, they weren't lost anywhere. Mother, Maya, the dreams of the past—all live within these walls.

All stories never end. Some stories just wait—for someone to return, for someone to remember. The house surrounded by that color, still dreams. Maybe you have a picture of him on your wall. RetryClaude can make mistakes. Please double-check responses.