He was in his room, half-reclined against the headboard of the bed, staring at the wall, his cellphone lying face-down beside him, buzzing occasionally when a message came in.

Unmoved by the buzzing or by the footsteps that came and went at regular intervals, he kept staring at the wall, as if lost, absorbed in his own thoughts.

—Staring at the wall again? he heard Niva say fondly.

He waited for the footsteps to fade away, and as if waking from a dream, he murmured to himself.

—There are often more interesting stories in a wall than in a phone.

—I thought you’d never say it, geez, it was about time — said a voice that seemed to come from everywhere in the room and from nowhere in particular.

Startled, he sat up abruptly in bed.

—What? Who said that? Niva, did you say something to me?

But it was useless — Niva had gone out to the apartment’s small terrace and couldn’t hear him.

—Who said that? he repeated, now openly frightened.

—Me, said the same voice, this time closer, as if speaking right beside him. —It was me. Why are you so startled? You called me yourself, I heard it clearly — you wanted to find a story, and you called me.

Soren rubbed his eyes, then realized it made no sense to do that, since the problem wasn’t in his eyes but in his ears, and he scratched them frantically, outside, inside, until he couldn’t take it anymore, and he listened…

Nothing.

He closed his eyes and gave it all the attention he could.

Still nothing.

Relieved, he breathed out, and with that habit of his of muttering his thoughts under his breath, he said:

—What a scare. Maybe I was asleep — I could’ve sworn the wall talked to me.

—You weren’t asleep, said the voice. —It was me. Why does that seem so strange to you?

Soren had to sit down; either he was hallucinating, or he had stumbled upon something never seen before — and certainly never heard.

—It’s not possible, he insisted. —Niva must be pulling a prank on me, and a very good one at that. Come on, Niva! he shouted, or tried to shout, though his voice came out shaky. —The joke was good, but that’s enough now.

—Why do you keep insisting it isn’t true? Man of little faith in walls — you’re hearing me, and you still don’t believe me? It’s me. A wall. And I’m talking to you.

—It’s not possible. Walls don’t talk.

—Just because you’ve never heard one talk doesn’t mean we don’t. Tell me — have you ever heard a mushroom talk? No, right? And yet it’s been proven that they communicate with each other, and even with other beings.

—Wait, wait, wait. How do you know all that?

—We hear and see many things, for a very long time. It is, shall we say, “building” character.

Soren laughed at the wordplay but quickly snapped back to reality.

—You said you see too. Is that true?

—Well, not exactly, I think it’s more like we perceive. Yes, that’s it — it’s hard to explain, but it’s something like that.

—And everything, all the time?

—How do you figure? Do you think I have nothing better to do? We walls have many things, and very important ones, to attend to, all the time.

Soren thought he must be delirious — was a wall seriously telling him it was busy?

—Don’t you believe it? We have to maintain cohesion between our particles, we have to reject annoying noises, we have to hold on to whatever temperature we can manage, not to mention we often have to put up with blaring music, furniture being slammed around, and shoe marks. It’s hard work, and thankless, if I may say so.

—I hadn’t thought of it that way, said Soren. —But then, you don’t see everything.

—That’s not our function, nor is it within our interest — most of the time your world doesn’t even interest us. But every once in a great while, something different happens, something special that catches our attention, and then we perceive it, and we hear it, and once we have, it can’t — it shouldn’t — be forgotten.

—And what do you do with those stories? Just keep them?

—We tell them to each other, and that’s why…

—Wait, wait. What do you mean? You tell them to each other? Do you have some kind of monthly wall meeting where you all leave your houses to attend, or something? — Soren didn’t wait for an answer and went on, talking to himself — Something’s definitely wrong with me. Something I ate, maybe? Yesterday’s mushrooms? No, that can’t be it, Niva would be the same way. So what’s happening to me?

—Calm down, Soren, said the voice, as if reading his thoughts. —You’re not crazy, or anything close to it. Wait, let me explain: no, we don’t have any meetings, we can’t move, you know. But we’re all connected to each other through the floor, the pavement, other walls, and more. The same way someone knocks on a wall in a nearby room and you hear it — that’s how we communicate, and how we tell each other the stories worth seeing and the ones worth telling.

—And are there many?

—Well, walls have been around in your world for quite a long time, you know. And there are some walls that have been standing for a very long time and have seen a great many things, but…

—But what? Soren pressed, growing impatient.

—Well, the conditions each wall has lived through have shaped each one’s personality a great deal. Some, having witnessed betrayal in the souls of men and women, have grown hard, skeptical; others are newly built and fragile, not even self-aware yet; some are in a fun place and are cheerful and playful; some are very learned, from being in an art center; and then there are others that are innocent, and even, I don’t know how to put it… basic.

—So each one would tell the same story in a different way, right?

—Correct. Now do you understand it all?

—Almost all of it. Why are you telling me all this? Why reveal this secret, and why to me, specifically?

—Well, look, we’d actually been talking about that very thing. There are many stories that simply get lost, stories worth telling, so we thought that maybe someone could listen to them and write them down — precisely so they wouldn’t be lost.

—I understand, but that doesn’t answer the second part of my question: why me?

—Well, we’d been looking for someone who was sufficiently… unconventional, let’s put it that way, and who could take on the challenge.

—So I’m Unconventional? I like your delicacy, laughed Soren. —Other people describe it differently.

—Well, that’s just it — and the moment I heard you say there are interesting stories in a wall, I took it as a sign, and here I am, talking to you, asking you to listen to the stories we have to tell and share them with the world.

—Right, said Soren. —And you think people are going to believe me?

—Since when has that mattered to you? You don’t write to be believed, you write because you have things to say, and it just so happens that people like it. That’s all we’re asking. So, what do you say? Do you accept?

—But you’ll have to help me, of course. I know I’ll need to go to the places, get to know where the stories happened, and listen to them, but don’t expect me to sit around chatting with walls in front of everyone. I’ll go, I’ll see, and I’ll listen, but the story and whatever questions I have, we’ll need to handle those in private. I’d rather not end up on the news as “the man who talks to walls.”

—And you’re right not to want that. Let’s give it a try — I’ll introduce you to a few walls and a few masonry stretches, you write the story, you publish it, and we’ll see if people like it. Sound good?

Soren got up, paced around the room a bit, walked over to the window, and looked out at the city as if trying to calculate the number of walls in it.

—Well, let’s see what happens, he said finally. —Let’s see what people say.