An old house holds multiple lifetimes of memories. Some are bound to spill over into the present.
Under the attic floorboards are small bits of other people's lives...toy soldiers that slipped through and were forgotten, ribbons from another wee girl from another time, an earring long given up for lost. One day, when the current house "to-do" list is completed, boards may be pulled up and 80-some years of bits and baubles will be cleaned out. Or it may simply be left for whomever comes after and has the privilege of calling this old house their home.
Since our arrival, a fan has been on in our children's room. White noise to cover the floor squeaks, moans and groans so our light sleepers could stay asleep. A couple of nights ago that fan had had enough and the one from our bedroom took its place.
For the past couple of nights the sounds of the house have lolled me to sleep. Sounds usually covered up by the fan. Quiet sleep woofs from the dog tucked in the corner in her bed...playfulness from kitties downstairs...creaks and groans as the house settles for the night...and faint whispers of something else. Voices, music right on the edge of my hearing...and last night, just out of reach, the sound of bagpipes. I'll have to ask our neighbor about that. Far from being mournful, it was a comfort. My sleep was sound and my dreams adventurous.