Photography- Photographer Lan Yao
On a staircase with thirty steps
Not the first.
Not the top.
The third from the bottom.
Everyone learns this.
Guests are warned.
Late at night, people step over it
without thinking.
The wood has memory.
Not in some sentimental way—
just physics.
Years of weight in the same spot
loosened the joint,
wore the nail,
gave the board its small voice.
You could fix it.
Hammer it back down.
Silence it forever.
But then the stairs would feel different.
Too quiet.
Like a house holding its breath.