In the heart of Tbilisi, where narrow streets bend like rivers of memory, there stands an old wooden house. Its staircase twists upward in fragile zigzags, a wooden labyrinth built more than a century ago. Once, such staircases were the pride of the city’s courtyards—handcrafted by local carpenters who carved patterns into the railings, each design carrying a trace of folklore and family.

Generations of footsteps wore its boards smooth: children running to school, women carrying baskets of fruit from the market, neighbors pausing on the landings to share gossip or songs. During stormy nights, the stairs creaked like a violin, telling stories of the city’s unrest and its resilience.

Today, the paint is fading, the wood weathered, and the staircase seems fragile as a memory. Yet it still stands—an open book of Tbilisi’s past, waiting for new feet to write the next chapter.