The sun had just begun to rise, casting soft golden light across the small village where Lala and her family had moved. The new house stood tall and unfamiliar, with its pale blue walls and wide wooden windows. From the outside, it looked beautiful, almost like something out of a picture book. But for Lala, who had just said goodbye to her old beloved home the day before, it felt foreign and uncomfortable.
When Lala opened her eyes that morning, she expected to see the faded cream curtains of her old bedroom, the little shelf with her favorite toys, and the crack in the ceiling she used to trace with her eyes every night before bed. Instead, she saw fresh, bright paint, a window facing a strange tree she didn’t know, and boxes stacked in the corners, still waiting to be unpacked.
She sat up slowly, her heart heavy. “This doesn’t feel like my home,” she whispered to herself.
Her mom called from the kitchen, “Lala, come have breakfast!”
The voice sounded cheerful, but to Lala it was almost too cheerful, as if her mom was trying hard to make things seem normal. She dragged her feet to the kitchen, where a plate of bread, eggs, and fruit sat neatly on the table. The kitchen itself was strange—so much bigger than the old one, but empty of the familiar marks of life. The pots hadn’t found their places, the shelves were bare, and the smell of fresh paint lingered in the air.
Lala nibbled her food quietly, her eyes wandering to the backyard through the glass door. There was a large mango tree swaying gently in the breeze. She had never seen it before, and it seemed to look back at her as if it were curious too.
After breakfast, her dad asked, “Want to help me unpack, Lala? It will be fun arranging things.”
Lala shook her head. “I want to go outside.”
Her dad smiled patiently and let her go.
The moment Lala stepped into the backyard, she felt like she was in another world. The ground was soft and uneven, filled with patches of tall grass and stones. There were flowers she had never seen before, blooming wildly near the fence. The mango tree stretched wide, its branches heavy with green fruit. She tilted her head up, watching a pair of birds hop along the branches.
But as she took a few more steps, Lala noticed something strange—there was a tiny wooden swing tied to one of the tree’s lowest branches. The ropes looked worn, as if someone had used it before. Yet her family had just moved in yesterday.
“Who put this here?” she whispered.
Curiosity pushed her forward. She sat down carefully on the swing, testing its strength. It creaked under her weight but held steady. She pushed herself gently and began to sway back and forth. The air smelled sweet, and for a brief moment, Lala felt happy.
But then she heard it—soft giggles.
She froze. The sound was faint, almost like the laughter of another child, but she couldn’t see anyone around. The yard was empty. The neighbors’ houses were too far for her to hear them clearly.
Her heart began to race. “Who’s there?” she asked, her voice trembling.
Silence followed.
Lala climbed off the swing and ran back toward the house, her chest tight with unease. Inside, she tried to tell her mom what had happened.
“There’s a swing outside,” she said quickly, “and I heard someone laughing.”
Her mom looked surprised. “A swing? Oh, maybe the last family left it there. And laughter? Probably just the neighbors’ kids, Lala. Don’t worry.”
But Lala shook her head. “It didn’t sound far away. It was close. Very close.”
Her mom patted her hand gently. “It’s your first day here, sweetheart. Everything feels new and strange. Give it some time.”
Though her mom’s words were meant to comfort, they only made Lala more confused. She decided not to argue, but inside she knew what she had heard.
Later in the day, while helping her dad open boxes, Lala found another strange thing. Inside one of the closets, tucked into the corner, was a small notebook. Its cover was dusty and faded, with drawings of stars and flowers doodled all over. She opened it carefully, and to her surprise, the pages were filled with the handwriting of a child.
“Today I played under the mango tree. The swing makes me feel like I’m flying.”
Lala’s eyes widened. The swing!
She flipped through more pages.
“Sometimes I hear voices when I swing. Maybe it’s the tree talking to me.”
Her skin prickled with goosebumps. Could it be that the child who wrote this was the one who laughed earlier?
“Dad,” she asked cautiously, “who lived here before us?”
Her dad shrugged. “I’m not sure. The house was empty when we bought it. Why?”
“No reason,” she said quickly, clutching the notebook to her chest.
That afternoon, she sat by the window of her new room, staring at the mango tree. The swing swayed slightly, though there was no wind. She wanted to feel brave enough to go outside again, but part of her hesitated. What if she heard the laughter again? What if the tree really could talk, like the notebook suggested?
As evening fell, her parents busied themselves setting up furniture. The house slowly began to feel less empty, but Lala still felt like an outsider. When dinner ended, she asked if she could sleep with her parents for the night. They agreed, thinking she was simply nervous about the move.
That night, as she drifted off in the unfamiliar house, Lala thought about her old home—warm, familiar, safe. She missed the sound of the old floorboards creaking, the sight of her neighbor’s lights glowing in the evening, the little corner where she used to play with her dolls.
But she also couldn’t stop thinking about the swing and the notebook. The strangeness of it all tugged at her curiosity. She wondered if her new home held secrets she was meant to discover.
Though she felt scared, a tiny spark of excitement flickered inside her. Maybe, just maybe, the strange and confusing first day was the beginning of an adventure.
