When the wet attacks

I never thought a corner of my house could tell such a bitter story. Every day I walked past that wall without paying attention, as if it were just another backdrop in my life. But everything changed one rainy afternoon, when I noticed the paint beginning to form small bubbles. I didn't think anything of it at first. "It's just humidity," I told myself. A towel, some ventilation... it would surely fix it.

But as the days went by, those bubbles grew, turned into blisters, and the wall began to tear. It was as if something inside wanted to come out. The paint peeled off at the mere touch of it. Behind it, the plaster was completely eaten away, covered in a whitish crust, like an open, forgotten wound.

I tried to ignore it, but things got worse. One day, as I bent down to look at the foundation, I noticed that even the tiles were cracked. The concrete underneath was crumbling, as if it had been rotting for years. It was obvious: the dampness had invaded from below, rising little by little like a silent illness.

I sat in front of that corner, as if waiting for it to speak to me. Deep down, I knew: that wall was showing me a part of the house I never wanted to see. It spoke of an old leak, a construction error, years of silence where the water did its work, unseen.

Today, I no longer see just a damaged wall. I see a reminder that ignoring the details, the small warnings, can be costly. It's not just a matter of aesthetics; it's a whisper of warning, a wake-up call. Because even walls have a story… and sometimes, they're desperate to tell it.