“Yes. Ever since her husband passed, she hasn’t been the same.”
After her husband’s death the year before, the woman had withdrawn from everyone. She spoke little, kept to herself—and now this strange, almost threatening construction rising above her home.
Each day, more stakes appeared. The roof looked unnatural, like a giant trap waiting to spring. Rumors spread quickly.
Some claimed she was warding off dark forces.
Others insisted it was a bizarre renovation.
The boldest whispered that she had started some kind of cult inside her house.
“No sane person would do that,” people muttered outside the village shop.
“It’s all sharp. Just looking at it gives me chills.”
What no one saw was the care behind the work.
She selected every piece of wood herself, choosing only dry, sturdy stakes. She sharpened each one at a precise angle. She placed them slowly and methodically, making sure they were firmly secured. She knew the roof intimately—every weak point, every place that needed reinforcement.
Eventually, someone gathered the courage to ask her directly.
“Why are you doing this? Are you afraid of something?”
