A Story About a Tiny, Tiny, Tiny House

Once upon a time, in a big city, there was a man who, like everyone else, dreamed of a place of his own—a little house he could call home.

He lived in a world where houses were very expensive, and no matter how hard he worked, he couldn’t save enough money to buy a place he could call his own. The man would walk the streets, looking at the dozens, hundreds of houses surrounding him, lamenting in his heart over not having a home of his own. 

A house might be too much—he longed for a place, any place, he thought, that would be his, where no one could kick him out, where he could hide when the world became too overwhelming.

Oh God! If he could only have a place, any place!

And because miracles do happen, one happened to him. An unknown and unexpected aunt left him an inheritance. A place to live in. I say “a place” because it wasn’t a house, it wasn’t an apartment, it wasn’t even a studio; it was a tiny room, two by two meters, in an old, overgrown aristocratic house.

The man felt like the happiest person in the world. He had his own home, his own place, and it was so beautiful, incredibly beautiful—the most beautiful. It was small but charming, without windows, but it had its own entrance. And what did he need windows for if he had ventilation? It was his, and that was all that mattered, and he was unbelievably happy.

The happiest man in the world threw himself into setting up his little home. The room had a tall, tall ceiling, so he took advantage of this and built shelves and cupboards, leaving only enough space to stand. He crafted his own special bed for the tiny room, as long as one side and as narrow as possible—just wide enough to lie down on his back and fall asleep. 

He modified the door to open outward so he could arrange the miniature furniture as efficiently as possible. He installed a tiny sink and toilet, and in one corner, a toy-sized stove, but one that worked exceptionally well. In a short time, maybe a little over a month, his home, his jewel, was ready, and he was overwhelmed with the fulfillment of having his own space, a place of his own in this big wide world.

To fit into the tiny house, the man had to throw away many things and part with some which  he loved dearly, but that's the way it is, he told himself; the little house was more important than anything else.

Now that he lived in it, he often discovered he needed something or other he had given up, but he thought, That’s the way it is; we have to adapt and manage without. We can't have everything, and he forgot about those things, rejoicing once again in the fulfillment of having a home.

When you have a very small place, it’s difficult to get to the cupboards, shelves, or any item because anything taken out of its storage spot takes up too much of the limited available space. But he didn’t need to move anything around; the few things on the surface were enough.

The important thing was his home, which kept him safe and gave him a feeling that, no matter what, he would never end up on the streets because it, small and humble, would always be there, his, just for him.

The tiny, tiny, tiny home was very clean, simply because there was very little surface to clean. If he didn’t keep things in order, he wouldn’t have any room to move around. On the other hand, he found himself with more money. Because he had such a tiny house, he restrained himself and no longer bought all sorts of trinkets to fill his world.

Now he thought two or three times before buying something, knowing he would have to make space for it somewhere. So, he only bought what he truly wanted and stopped spending money aimlessly, instead investing in his education, trips, and tours.

Time went by, and the man got used to his little house. In fact, he began to resent it.

What a small house! He wished he had space to move around, windows to look out of, and not sleep in the same room with all his worldly possessions. What a small house!

And he began to resent it.

The man’s frustration grew until it burst. He sold his tiny, incredibly small house, took out a horrendously big loan, and bought a relatively normal sized house, albeit a bit ordinary.

Once again, he was the happiest man in the world because that’s how happiness is: it comes in waves and stages.

He furnished his new house, spreading out his things everywhere, which now seemed inhumanly few. Therefore he was forced to buy many, many things to fill the empty space. How wonderful it was to have a big house—fantastic! 

The new house was so big that he hardly ever had time to tidy up, so in the little time he wasn’t at work, he lived in indescribable chaos. It’s a good thing it’s a big house, so you can’t really tell, he told himself.

The loan and the furnishings drained all his resources, so he didn’t have much left for himself. But I have a big house, he thought, not that tiny shack where I was suffocating.

But a pesky thought wouldn’t let him rest and kept him awake at night. He no longer felt safe. Yes, he had space. Yes, he had many things, but if something happened, anything, big or small, he’d be left without his big house, without his many things, without the experiences he could have had.

In those moments, he thought about his very small house and the times when he felt a bit freer, albeit cramped, with fewer worries and things, as if he existed more fully in fewer square meters.

Yes, but look at all this space!