We’d rented that two‑bedroom apartment for three years—just beige walls and popcorn ceilings, but it was ours. We filled it with our mismatched furniture, books, and trinkets—quiet, gradual touches that turned it into home.
One Saturday morning, the landlord Rick came to inspect after a leak upstairs. I was in the bathroom getting ready when he slipped in behind the closed door and stayed silent for ten minutes. When he finally emerged, he said everything was fine—but I felt uneasy.
That night, I noticed the bathroom mirror was subtly crooked. Behind it, I discovered a tiny hole in the wall with a hidden microphone connected by a wire. It had been there long before Rick’s visit. We realized someone had planted it.
Later, my husband Owen revealed he was up for a major promotion—and a competitor had threatened to dig up dirt on him. It clicked: Rick must’ve installed the mic for sabotage. We contacted the police and confronted Rick, but he vanished without a trace. Meanwhile, the rival was fired after another coworker came forward.
When our lease ended, we moved into a small house. Owen installed a new mirror; I checked every screw and bracket. We don’t talk much about what happened, but sometimes he still wonders how much was overheard.
We lost our privacy and the sense of safety at home—but we rebuilt both, quietly and deliberately.