All summer long—and well into autumn—an elderly woman climbed onto the roof of her house every single day and hammered in sharp wooden stakes.
At first, the villagers only watched in silence. Then the murmurs started.
“Have you noticed her roof?”
“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After her husband’s death the year before, the woman had withdrawn from everyone.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?”
She didn’t look defensive. She didn’t look confused. She simply looked up and replied calmly:
“This is my protection.”
“Protection from who?” they asked.
“From what’s coming,” she said.
She offered no further explanation.
Then winter came—and everything became clear.
Snow fell first. Then came the wind. Violent, relentless gusts that bent trees and tore through the village. People lay awake at night listening to roofs groan and fences collapse. By morning, sheets of roofing lay scattered across yards.
When the storm finally passed, neighbors went out to assess the damage.
Many houses had suffered badly. Roofs were partially destroyed. Boards were missing.
But her house stood untouched.
Not a single plank was gone.
The wooden stakes had taken the full force of the wind, breaking its power and redirecting it upward. While the storm ravaged everything around it, her roof held firm.
Only afterward did the truth emerge.
The woman hadn’t acted on madness or fear. The winter before, a powerful windstorm had nearly torn her home apart. Her husband was still alive then. He had told her about an old storm-defense technique once used in the area—something people had long forgotten.
She remembered his words.
She followed his instructions.
And only then did the villagers understand: there had never been anything crazy about that roof at all.
