For months, I felt like I wasn’t alone in my house. Living by myself, I brushed off the nightly noises—soft footsteps, faint shuffling—as old floorboards or anxiety. That changed the day I came home and noticed small things out of place: shifted cushions, a book turned the wrong way, a mug I didn’t remember using. Fear replaced denial.
I called the police. While searching, an officer asked if I’d ever checked my attic. I didn’t even know I had one.
Hidden above the ceiling was clear proof someone had been living there—a mattress, blankets, snack wrappers, and a handwritten journal. The intruder was gone, but the signs were recent. I moved out that night.
What haunted me most wasn’t the break-in—it was the closeness. Someone had quietly shared my space, unseen.
Later, the diary revealed the truth: a homeless young person seeking safety, not harm. Years after, I recognized them in a nonprofit photo helping unhoused youth.
That experience taught me this unforgettable lesson: sometimes the scariest discovery is simply another human trying to survive.
