The Blue Staircase of the House by the Sea

The house by the sea had a blue staircase.

It went from the kitchen to the bedrooms, from the smell of tomato sauce to the smell of clean sheets. By day Nico ran up and down it. At bedtime, however, the staircase seemed longer.

“I don’t want to go up,” he said.

“You are tired,” said his father.

“I am not.”

The first step creaked.

“I am,” said the staircase.

Nico stared.

“You are tired?”

“Of being jumped over. Steps like to be noticed.”

The staircase had fourteen steps, each painted a slightly different blue: sea blue, sky blue, deep blue, morning blue, almost grey blue. Nico had never looked at them carefully.

That evening the staircase proposed a game.

“Do not go to bed. Come only to the first blue.”

Nico placed one foot on the first step.

“Good evening, first blue.”

The step warmed.

“Now only the second.”

He climbed slowly. At every step he said good evening: to the blue of shells, the blue of boats, the blue of clouds after rain.

Halfway up, he forgot to protest.

At the last step, his room was no longer far away. It was simply the next place.

The staircase creaked softly, satisfied.

From then on, Nico used the blue steps for many things: when he was angry, when he was afraid of a new day, when he had to apologize. He did not try to leap over everything.

He greeted one step.

Then another.

And the house by the sea seemed to breathe with him.